Nightslayers
by Mordae Conanoren
Summary: Two elves must battle lots of randomness for the sake of Middle Earth. PG13 for violence, complex plot, light language. DOES NOT have Legolas, thank Illuvatar.
1. Prologue

_On a little-traveled dirt road in the forests of Beriland, a lone rider, cloaked and hooded in a long, black garment, charged onward down the winding path. The man emanated a dark power that one could feel, practically taste, just from gazing upon him._

_Despite this fact, a band of thieves, fifteen strong, lined the tree-covered sides of the road ahead of the rider. All the men bore long broadswords, and a few toted longbows as well. They had been hired by an unnamed warlord to bring down a 'scout of our enemies' that they had been told would be traveling by them sometime that day. In such chaotic times, however, one never knew who the 'enemies' were, nor did one know if they were attacking the correct target._

_As the rider raced through the center of the well-spaced group, a shrill whistle sounded, prompting their attack. Even before the first blow had been struck, it was evident that this was not just any scout._

_The man launched himself from his massive black steed, executing a back flip and landing solidly on the ground, his hands, hidden beneath forest-green dragonskin gloves, held slightly below his chest. The ambush halted for a moment, unsure of what to do next, looking to their commander for orders. The mercenary leader responded by uttering a guttural cry and surging forward, sword raised in an aggressive pose._

_Beneath the black hood, the rider grinned maliciously, then thrust one of his gloved hands outward at his assailant, releasing a ball of black flame into the man's chest. Before the others could react, the mage threw both his hands toward the ground, unleashing a shockwave that obliterated the four bandits closest to him._

_The panicked survivors began to scramble back into the trees, but with grim deliberation, they fell one by one to bolts of dark energy hurled by their intended victim._

_In an instant, it was over. The ghostly silence that followed was broken by one sound; the low, mocking laughter of the rider._

_Slowly the man drew back his hood, revealing a purple-tinted, youthful face void of any hair. His bald head was covered in tattoos of black flames that spiraled downward, presumably all the way down the rider's spine. The piercing red eyes shimmered with twisted glee as he haughtily cracked his knuckles. _

_The man was a Drow, a dark elf, one who had refused the Valar's invitation to Valinor a thousand years ago; an elf fallen into shadow. The Drow strode confidently to the side of the dead mercenary leader's body. His eyes scanned the charred chest with satisfaction, and then with a grunt, the dark elf spat onto the smoldering corpse, which he spoke to in a smooth baritone._

"_That shall teach thee to challenge the might of Maneva Mornië, thou scum; none face the might of Udun and survive."_

_Maneva Mornië, personal apprentice to Sauron himself, slowly drew his black hood over his bald head, strode collectedly to the side of his enormous mount, and with a final, mocking nod, galloped cavalierly from the carnage._


	2. Chapter I: To Wreck an Invasion

_**Chapter I: To Wreck an Invasion**_

In a clearing in a forest of Old Gondor sat an army of ragtag soldiers. They bore the flag of the Fellowship, and today, they bore it with pride. In the night, their company had ambushed a nomadic tribe and utterly destroyed it. They had chained those who were not executed outright to one of their supply wagons. The attack had gone off without a hitch, and they were feeling invincible. Unfortunately for them, the attack had not gone unnoticed. And invincibility is never achieved for long.

At the edge of the forest, a young guard stood watch. He normally would have been concentrating very hard on his task, but the night's events continued to play through his head. Officer material, he had heard one of the Lieutenants say. He had been instrumental in the victory, leading his unit when their commander was killed, and his superiors had noticed. He beamed, too preoccupied to notice a shadow fall over him.

Celebdraug, an ancient Noldorian assassin, cast the shadow. She was nearly 7,000 years old in the ages of man, but could easily be mistaken for a girl in her early 20's. Pausing behind the guard, she blew her black hair out of her eyes. She nearly felt remorse for what she was about to do, but she recalled the sight of the same man slitting the throats of helpless captives the night before.

Her eyes narrowed, lighting red and beginning to swirl, as they always did when she was excited. She took one stride, silently bringing her over six and a half foot tall body inches from her target. Her left arm shot out with lightning speed, clamping over the guard's mouth. She pulled his head close to whisper in his ear as her right arm placed a vicious looking dagger on his throat.

_"Not so fun on the other side, is it?" _

With a jerk of her arm, she sliced the dagger across his neck. Her form melted back into the forest as the guard's body fell.

Across the clearing, seeing it as though standing right beside Celebdraug,

Mordae, another Noldorian elf and Celebdraug's cousin, watched the guard fall.

He stepped forward, bringing his seven-foot tall body, swathed in a black and green cloak, into the view of the soldiers that had run to investigate the guard's body. Before any of them could react, he brought his dragon-heartstring bow up, three arrows knocked and already pulled, and fired into the cluster of men. Every arrow found its mark, one of them punching through and into another soldier.

The group scattered, but Mordae fired again and again until they had all fallen to the hard ground.

Drawing her sword, Celebdraug met Mordae's eyes and she smiled. He returned her grin, drew his own sword, then charged headlong into the middle of the army's camp.

Celebdraug watched as her comrade met his opponents in the center of the front lines. She nearly laughed aloud at the futile efforts of the soldiers to kill her cousin. The two elves had been together so long that they worked as one, and when they were allowed to fight side by side, none could touch them.

Celebdraug looked to the captives, and the guards that were watching them. One by one, the guards headed off toward Mordae, until finally, they had nearly all left. That was her cue. A dagger in each hand, Celebdraug sprinted towards the captives as fast as a horse could run. She slowed as she neared, and then attacked. Drawing up alongside the prisoners and remaining guards, Celebdraug thrust the dagger in her left hand into the back of a guard. She released the dagger as he fell and, jumping, hurled the other into another guard's chest.

Drawing her two short swords in midair, Celebdraug adjusted to land on another soldier. She stabbed down with her left and slid her sword into the spot between his shoulder and his neck, and swung her right into another guard's stomach. Ducking the swing of another guard to her left, Celebdraug paused. She could see now that the chains holding the prisoners would be easily destroyed. She thrust her left hand up into the soldier's gut, and finished him with a slash from her right hand sword. Then, she reached down and took hold of the chain holding the prisoners. She ripped hard, and the chain snapped into pieces.

Leaping over the prisoner's heads, Celebdraug struck a soldier with her left fist as she pinned another to one of the supply wagons with her right-hand sword. There was a crack as the soldier she had punched crumpled to the ground, his head bent back impossibly far. Celebdraug spun to face the stunned prisoners and yelled to them. "Run!" They needed no further urging, and they scattered.

The soldiers battling Mordae wished with all they had that they could flee. Wielding a massive broadsword as though it was naught but a stick, he moved efficiently, his movements flowing together in a sort of gruesome dance, all the while dropping more and more soldiers to the ground.

Mordae brought his sword crashing down on a man to his right, neatly slicing him in half. Spinning, Mordae grabbed the sword arm of a man who was attempting to stab him in the back. He bent the man's arm behind him and without slowing, relieved the soldier of his head.

With a snap of his arm, Mordae whipped his sword in a circle, felling a half dozen more men. Turning his head, he saw a horde of archers racing toward Celebdraug. He set his jaw and with a cry, drove toward her, leaving a trail of broken bodies along his path.

Celebdraug drew her broadsword and crouched into a low defensive stance. The flames that were barely contained in her sword flashed even more violently in her eyes, causing the soldiers to back apprehensively away. Behind them, she could hear Mordae laying waste to the others. The now freed prisoners either fled or grabbed weapons of their own from slain soldiers to assist in the bloodbath.

Celebdraug's hypersensitive ears suddenly detected people running behind the supply wagons. She tensed as archers appeared atop and alongside the three wagons. Time seemed to slow as they drew and fired. Celebdraug spun and twisted, her elven reflexes allowing her to see, hear, and feel every dart shot at her.

She finished her complex dodge and whirled to face the archers. At the last second, her hand shot out and plucked from the air an arrow aimed straight for her head. Celebdraug hurled the arrow with all of her strength into the archer who had fired it, and he dropped, clutching his throat where it struck. Glaring into the eyes of the archers, Celebdraug prepared for the second volley. It never came.

Behind the archers, Mordae slid to a stop. Moving silently but swiftly, he sheathed his swords and grabbed the corner of a wagon with each hand. He inhaled, and then jerked up with all his might, flinging the two wagons into the other archers. There was a crash as the wagons collided with others and a huge cloud of dust and debris filled the air. With a smile, Mordae stepped into the swirling dust, sword drawn.

Sensing a flicker of movement, Mordae lashed out with his sword. He felt it connect and heard the man cry out and crash to the ground. He reached out with his mind and felt Celebdraug in front of him, hearing her sword ring as she slew the last remaining archers. In the center of the chaos, he could sense a small cluster of terrified soldiers. _'Fear is the greatest warrior in war,'_ he thought to himself as he began to charge.

Earendil, a soldier of the Fellowship, could practically feel the fear in his comrades. Just minutes before, they had been resting, about to embark on the final leg of their journey back to Minas Tirith. Then, all hell had broken loose and now he and his five unit mates were all that remained.

'Two enemies!' he thought. 'Why can we not kill two enemies?'

Suddenly, there was a flash of blue light directly in front of Earendil. Looking for the entire world like a demon from Udun itself, the giant charged through the dust, gleaming sword back at the ready. Just before he was removed from Middle Earth, Earendil noticed the lightning flashing on the giant's sword.

'Fire and light,' he mused. 'They do exist.'

Legends had it that a pair of warriors bearing two of the five elements would rise up and restore the elven kingdom to its full glory. As he raised up his sword in a feeble attempt to block the giant's swing, he decided that if he were to die in battle, he could not have thought of a more worthy opponent. He heard his sword shatter under the awesome blow, and then it was over.

There was a horrendous crash and sparks flew as Mordae's sword smashed through the center of the shaken group of soldiers. The men did not let out a sound; rather they simply collapsed, cleaved in two. In one smooth motion, Mordae sheathed his sword on his back. He peered through the dust, searching for Celebdraug.

_"Warmed up yet?"_ he called.

An instant later, there was one final crash, one last scream cut short. Celebdraug's voice rose through the earthy veil.

_"Bite me."_

Mordae smiled, _"I'll take that as a yes."_


	3. Chapter II: Old and New

_**Chapter II: Old and New**_

Celebdraug pulled her sword from the man's body and looked it over. The blade hissed as the heat that rose from the inner flame evaporated the blood that was on it. She felt a hand touch her shoulder, and she whirled to look down into the face of a strong-jawed man.

"Excuse me, my lady," he said, his voice calm and filled with authority, "I am Lèofa, the leader of my people.

We are forever indebted to you and the others. We are your humble servants."

Celebdraug sighed as she slid her sword into the sheath on her back. She glared into the dust that was beginning to settle.

_"You could start by finding my stupid cousin,"_ she muttered to herself. She turned back to the man and spoke in accented Common Speech.

"Please wait here. I shall return shortly to thee."

Celebdraug whirled and stomped into the dust, muttering elvish obscenities under her breath. Suddenly, Mordae appeared in front of her, his arm outstretched, holding one of her short-swords to her neck.

_"Agarwaen Udun__1__!"_ Celebdraug shrieked, striking her cousin roughly on the arm. _"Don't do that!"_

Mordae looked innocently at her, _"Do what?"_ he asked with a playful grin.

Celebdraug sighed. _"Oh, never mind. You thought you could just run away and leave me to deal with these losers?"_

Mordae glared in mock anger, _"You've discovered my evil plan! Now what am I supposed to do?"_

_"Oh, shut up."_

He grinned. _"No, I'm just trying to find your stuff. I intended to come and assist you as soon as you were done and didn't need me anymore."_

Celebdraug yanked the sword out of Mordae's hand and placed it into its sheath.

_"Fortunately for you, I wanted to share the experience."_

_"I'm so touched,"_ Mordae said sarcastically.

Celebdraug looked over her shoulder, then back to Mordae. _"Come on, those blithering children are getting ready to mess themselves in honor of us back there. We should go and deal with them."_

Mordae drew his sword and began stalking ominously towards the men, his intentions obvious.

_"Not that way, though it would be fun,"_ Celebdraug said, catching his arm and pulling him back.

She grabbed his other arm and attempted to take his sword. He pulled away and raised his arm to full extension, reaching nearly nine feet high.

_"Jerk,"_ spat Celebdraug, who felt that it was very unfair that Mordae was so tall.

_"You never want me to have any fun,"_ he whined.

She ran a finger down her cheek. _"I feel terrible for you,"_ she said in an irritatingly high voice,

_"Come on."_

Side by side, the elves strode as gracefully as possible to the waiting men. Their smiles had been replaced by solemn, wise, looks.

Lèofa bowed to them as they approached. "My lady, my lord. We are your humble servants."

_"Stuff it,"_ Mordae whispered.

The beginning of a smile flickered on Celebdraug's face, but she quickly shut it down.

Responding quickly so as not to make a fool of herself, Celebdraug spoke to Lèofa, "We require nothing from thee, save perhaps water for our canteens and thy allegiance."

Lèofa insisted, "Please, you must stay a night with us and let us prepare you a feast. You must be tired. We could provide rooms and perhaps warm baths."

Mordae began to refuse, but was cut off by Celebdraug. "Thy gratitude is appreciated. We shall agree to grace thy halls for a night, but come the rising of the sun, we must continue on our journey. I am Celebdraug Nauraumo, and this is my cousin, Mordae Conanoren," she said, gesturing to her companion.

Lèofa gave small bows to each of them. "Does he speak the common tongue as well?" he asked, gesturing slightly to Mordae.

Mordae barely looked down. "I do not speak unless it is entirely necessary to do so. A loose tongue spreads destruction."

_"Perianquende__2__,"_ Celebdraug whispered to Mordae. _"I can barely get you to shut up, half the time."_

Lèofa did not notice her response, but nodded sagely. He smiled again. "Come, my lieges, soon you will see the splendor of our city. We will need to travel a bit farther than the village, to our capitol, as the lodging in the village is destroyed." He glanced sheepishly away from the elves.

"'Tis better that thou should retreat to safety as it is. These are dark times," Mordae answered.

Lèofa nodded again and turned to organize his people.

Celebdraug turned to Mordae. _"You are so full of it,"_ she said.

_"I know, but he thinks I'm cool,"_ Mordae responded with a mockingly arrogant toss of his long brown hair.

_"At least somebody does,"_ Celebdraug retorted, reaching up and pulling his hair, which was tied back in a ponytail of sorts, to prevent it from getting in the way while he was fighting, _"Girly man."_

Mordae looked hurt. _"That's the last time I save your little butt."_

_"Ha!"_ Celebdraug spun, _"You saved me? I don't think so, buddy."_

He grinned, _"Oh, you know I did. Where would you be without me?"_

_"Sane,"_ she muttered. Turning, she began to walk off toward Lèofa.

_"Why does everybody hate me?" _he asked in a whining voice.

Celebdraug stopped and turned back, placing her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

"_'Cause you're stupid."_

She shrieked as he swatted at her and bolted off, Mordae close on her heels.

1 Bloody Hell

2 Hobbit tongue. One who speaks too much.


	4. Chapter III: Advice for the Advisors

_**Chapter III: Advice for the Advisors**_

Soon, the group could see the palace of New Edoras looming above them. While not as beautiful or splendid as it may have once been, it was still rather impressive to look upon. Its peacefulness was marred by the presence of military men everywhere. Archers lined the walls, and soldiers could be seen moving about inside the city.

Celebdraug looked up at Lèofa, who was riding a horse taken from the Fellowship soldiers they had defeated. "I see that thou art already in a state of war," she said to him.

He nodded grimly, "The Fellowship continues to take our lands. They have pushed our eastern border nearly to the capitol itself." He paused, as if considering something. "Do you think..." he stopped, then, swallowed and started again. "Would it be at all possible for you to stay in our lands and defend us? At least for a while?"

Celebdraug turned to Mordae with question in her eyes.

He shrugged, _"What do you think?"_ he asked.

_"I don't know!"_ she responded, _"Don't look at me! You know I can't make decisions!" _

Mordae sighed, looked at Celebdraug, then at Lèofa. "We shall consider thy request."

Now Lèofa sighed, "I figured you would say that."

After a moment of silence, the group reached the gates of New Edoras. The guards in front of the gate crossed their spears, and then pulled them back in astonishment. They let their weapons fall to the ground and dropped to their knees, faces down.

"My liege," exclaimed the captain, "You have returned!"

Lèofa smiled, "Rise," he commanded.

He reached down and removed a silver horn shaped like the head of a horse, and brought it to his lips. As the clear note rang out, cries of "The King!" could be heard echoing throughout the city.

Mordae stopped staring at Lèofa and dropped to his knee as well, Celebdraug following suit.

"Thou did not say that thou was the king!" Mordae said in surprise.

Lèofa laughed in response.

"We mistook thee for a tribal chief, or duke at the greatest, my liege. Our deepest apologies," Celebdraug added.

Again, Lèofa laughed, "Rise, it is I who should bow to you. I would not be the king if I were in a Belgorian prison, now would I? Come, you will soon enjoy the luxury you deserve."

They made their way through the streets of the city, where people bowed to them and placed flowers in their path.

Lèofa, noting the discomfort that all the attention seemed to cause the elves, smiled. "You are not used to this?"

They shook their heads. "We are more of the unsung heroes, not the parade soldiers," Celebdraug said nervously, looking about her.

Finally, they reached the gates of the palace, where several guards and advisors to the king stood. They bowed to Lèofa, and he nodded in return, then, turned to the elves.

"I have utmost trust in you, "he said to them, "however, tradition and law says that I must ask you to disarm yourselves."

The elves sighed. "Dost thou really wish to wait that long?" Mordae asked.

"I am a patient man," Lèofa said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Very well."

The elves began to disarm with dizzying speed. A pile of various lengths of swords, daggers, and throwing knives quickly grew into a mound. Finally, the elves added their bows and several quivers to the miniature armory.

"Does that suit thee?" Celebdraug asked with a small smile.

One of the advisors had been staring at Celebdraug for quite some time, and now he stepped forward and reached for the necklace on her chest. Before the guard could even begin to speak, Mordae's hand shot out and clasped around the man's wrist. Mordae had no intention of harming the advisor, only restraining him, but fear was still evident on the man's face.

Celebdraug reached out and touched Mordae's hand, speaking to him through mindspeak, the connection the elves shared.

. Let him go, her voice echoed in his head.

Do not let him touch you! Mordae responded.

What is your problem? You're going to get us both killed! 

Just trust me! Mordae's eyes blazed.

Celebdraug raised her eyebrows, but removed her hand, and Mordae released the advisor's wrist.

The man glared venomously at Mordae, then turned to Celebdraug. "What is this?" he asked, reaching again for her amulet.

She smiled sweetly as she tucked it inside her tunic. "It's nothing really. Just a necklace."

However, the advisor was not convinced, "But you both have one."

What the Udun does he want... Mordae thought to Celebdraug, his mind racing desperately.

She maintained her smile; "We were given them as gifts from southerners in our campaigns in the south."

"Ah," the advisor said. "I have heard of the mysterious warriors that defeated the Drow south of the White Mountains. We are indebted to you for that."

Celebdraug smiled even more broadly, "Thou art welcome."

The advisor nodded, but as he stepped back, the elves sensed deep hostility coming from him.

Told you. Mordae thought to Celebdraug. She turned away from him slightly and narrowed her eyes.

Lèofa hastily spoke up, "My servants will take you to your quarters now."

"Thank you," Celebdraug said as she followed the servants inside the palace.

After the servant had bowed to them and departed, Celebdraug spun and glared at Mordae.

_"What in Illuvitar's name do you think you're doing?!?!"_

Mordae stepped back from her, a look close to pain on his face_. "Please! Celebdraug, listen..."_

_"Why must you always jump right to conclusions and try to solve things?"_

_"Listen! That man...couldn't you feel it? I swear I saw him in the south, in one of the temples we destroyed. He was one of the Drow priests. I know it."_

Celebdraug sighed, _"I did feel something wrong. But don't you think you overreacted?"_

_"If that man got hold_ _of your amulet, both of us, no, the whole Earth, would be in serious trouble."_

Celebdraug paused before answering. The amulets were far more than necklaces for looks. They were pieces of the elements bonded with part of the elves' life forces. Illúvatar, the All-God, had chosen the power of Light for Mordae, and Fire for Celebdraug. If the amulets were taken or destroyed, it would not only kill the owner, but could cause unbalance among the elements.

Celebdraug finally nodded, _"Okay, you were right. I was wrong. You win."_

Mordae smiled, but before he could make a sarcastic comment, she spoke up again.

_"So now that this is all cleared up, what are we going to do about this priesty guy?"_

_"Nothing?"_ he answered tentatively.

_"Wrong answer, hobbit,"_ Celebdraug answered. He glared playfully at her.

_"Well, we can't exactly just kill him, he's one of the King's advisors, and we have no weapons,"_ Mordae countered.

Celebdraug's eyes burned brightly, _"And why should that stop us?"_

He smiled knowingly and nodded,_ "Let's go explore."_

_"Why?" _she asked.

_"Because I'm bored, and we have forever before we have to go and be civil."_

The elves stealthily snuck past the guards placed at the entrance to their hallway and raced down the corridors of the palace, checking for hidden doors and balconies wherever they suspected anything interesting.

Finally, their efforts paid off. A bookcase they tested swung free with a squeak, revealing a dark tunnel. The two paused, allowing a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness and their natural night vision to kick in.

After a few seconds, the tunnel was to them nearly as bright as if the walls were lined with torches. Cautiously, Mordae entered, looking side to side for any movement as the chasm began to widen.

Suddenly, Celebdraug heard footsteps in the tunnel behind them. She tapped Mordae's shoulder and they flattened against the wall, drawing their cloaks, which acted as camouflage, around them.

A dark form walked slowly into the darkness, its hands hidden. The elves waited until the figure was directly in front of them before attacking, Mordae tackling the figure and Celebdraug pulling a dagger from the man's belt and placing it on his neck.

"Friends!" Lèofa's voice cried.

The elves quickly released him and helped him up, apologizing emphatically.

"All is well. I am unhurt," he replied. "However, you two should not be down here."

"What is it?" Mordae asked.

"An old mine shaft left over from the Third Age."

"Liar," Celebdraug responded with a smile.

"King."

"Fine."

"Come, my servants will tend to you."


	5. Chapter IV: Getting Pretty

_**Chapter IV: Getting 'Pretty'**_

The two elves walked dejectedly back to their quarters. A female servant awaited Celebdraug in front of her door.

"I am Deorwine, I will be assisting you in your preparations for the feast tonight," she said.

Mordae laughed, "I pity thee."

Celebdraug slapped his shoulder. "Go to thy room, thou blithering fool."

Deorwine laughed as well, "Come, my lady."

Once the two women were in the room, Deorwine danced over to the huge closet and flung open its doors. Celebdraug groaned and fell back onto the soft bed in the center of the room. She could hear Deorwine rifling through the hundreds of dresses in the massive closet.

"I'm not wearing one of those cursed dresses," she called to Deorwine, "I hate those damned things."

Deorwine came twirling from the closet. ""What? You are more beautiful than any other woman I have ever seen. Why would you want to mask that?"

Celebdraug jerked up quickly, "Do not call me beautiful."

"What? Why?" Deorwine said, confused.

Anger flashed in Celebdraug's eyes. "A long time ago, things happened, people died, and I don't like talking about it. Happy?" Her eyes flashed a burning red; the flames making them glow ominously.

Deorwine looked down. "Forgive me, my lady. I did not mean to intrude."

Celebdraug sighed, her anger fading. "Tis all right. Now, what did thou want me to wear?"

"Try these," she said, flinging the dresses in her arms at Celebdraug, who sighed and began sorting through the dresses Deorwine had chosen for her, muttering to herself as she did so.

Deorwine smiled, "Good girl," she said in a singsong voice as she turned back to the closet.

Celebdraug narrowed her eyes, grabbed a hairbrush from the bedside table and hurled it like a throwing knife through the open closet doors. She heard it rip past some dresses, and then strike something more solid.

"Hey!" Deorwine cried, "You little..."

Celebdraug smiled mischievously and went back to sorting the dresses.

Mordae sat down on his bed after exploring his room, satisfied. _"Not bad," _he said to himself.

The room was warm and decorated tranquilly. A few paintings hung on the walls, and in the corner stood two suits of armor, relics from the Third Age.

His eyes lit up at the sight of what the suits held; both wielded spears, with short-swords on their waists. He stood and walked swiftly across the room to them. Prying one of the spears from the glove and feeling the tip, Mordae noticed with pleasure that it was still sharp. With a small pull, he removed one of the swords and examined it as well with the same result. He smiled; these would come in useful tonight.

Standing, he moved to the closet. _"Okay, what do we have?"_

Just before the sunset, there was a knock at Celebdraug's door. She moved warily to answer it. "Who comes?" she asked.

Mordae's voice responded, "Are thou decent?"

Deorwine called from her seat at the mirror, "Your dear cousin hasn't been decent all day. She's rather rude, you know."

She grinned innocently at Celebdraug, who stuck her tongue out at her. "Let him in," Deorwine said.

"Why? Who wants to talk to him?"

Deorwine sighed as she rose and walked for toward the door, "So immature. Must I do everything for you?"

Mordae tapped his foot impatiently outside his cousin's door. He had chosen a black, slightly collared shirt, black pants, and a black cape with a blood red inside. It had taken him all of a half an hour to prepare. He shook his head; he would never understand why it took women forever to get ready for events.

"Celebdraug, you look like..._Thurang__1_ !" Mordae staggered back, his head throbbing where he had hit the top of the door.

"Why thank you, you look nice too," Celebdraug answered with a wry smile, adding _"Isilduro.__2__"_

Mordae shook his head, trying to clear it. Finally, the throbbing subsided, "Ready?" he asked Celebdraug.

She stepped to Mordae's side, dressed in black pants and cloak, along with a fire-red blouse with long, loose sleeves. Her hair was anything but elegant; it was pulled back in a fashion that would serve better in the middle of battle than at a formal affair. A long red scarf of the same color as her shirt was tied around her forehead. The whole effect served to make her look rather barbaric.

"I tried to make her wear a dress, I tried to do her hair, but she just wouldn't listen to me. She kept running away." Deorwine pouted.

Mordae smiled, "Thou art lucky that is all she did."

He offered his arm to Celebdraug, who turned up her nose and stomped down the hall, "I don't need you. And besides, you'll probably end up walking into a wall or something."

1 Elvish curse word

2 Klutz


	6. Chapter V: Darkness Falls

_**Chapter V: Darkness Falls**_

The two elves made their way down the corridors of the Venyarohirrim palace, following the directions that Deorwine had given them to the Great Hall. Just before they entered the Hall, a well-dressed man stopped them with a small gesture of his hand. He turned and bellowed into the hall.

"Their royal majesties and saviors of our people, Celebdraug Nauraumo and Mordae Conanoren!"

_"Cool," _Mordae whispered, _"Announcer guy."_

_"Yeah,"_ Celebdraug answered as another man began to move toward them and gestured toward the table at which Lèofa sat, _"We're all special now."_

The elves followed the man toward the table, and Lèofa greeted them with a smile.

"Welcome, my friends! I hope you brought your appetites, for you shall soon see the hospitality of the Venyarohirrim!"

"Indeed," Celebdraug said as she took a seat beside him.

He smiled, stood, and raised his hands toward the crowd. The clear sound of trumpets split the chatter, and the room fell silent.

"My good people! We gather tonight to celebrate my freedom and to honor these two brave warriors who have saved us! Without them, many of our kindred, including myself, would be rotting in a Fellowship prison as we speak! In addition, they have not only saved us this once, but have pledged to stay in our great city and help us battle the scourge of Belgor!"

Thunderous applause rang through the chamber.

Mordae leaned toward Celebdraug, I didn't agree, did you? 

Not to my knowledge, she responded.

Mordae shrugged and began to turn back to Lèofa, but he stopped as Celebdraug's eyes widened.

He followed her gaze to one of the large windows high above the floor of the Hall, where a dark figure crouched, black bow in hand.

_"Rac__1__,"_ Mordae hissed.

A whining buzz sounded over the applause, immediately silencing the assembly. Lèofa was hurled to the side, where his body crashed into a table, splintering it. Mordae hurried over and began to reach down to help the king up. He stopped as he noticed the long, crimson arrow protruding from Lèofa's neck.

_"Rac."_

Celebdraug was out of her chair and sprinting toward the window before Lèofa's body even hit the ground. The elf snatched the sword from a nearby guard's sheath as she flew past, causing him to cry out and stumble backward. Celebdraug was not sure where Mordae was, but on she charged, surging onward like a bolt of her cousin's lightning.

Reaching the window, Celebdraug leaped the ten meters up to the sill as though hopping over a small rock. The warrior rolled to the side and crouched, scanning the blackness of the night. Seeing nothing, Celebdraug began to crawl swiftly toward where she had seen the assassin flee. As the elf passed the last window of the Hall, she heard the flutter of a cloak behind her and whirled, sword flashing.

The sound of metal on metal rang through the night, followed by a hiss, _"Celebdraug, you dwarf-lover, it's me!"_

Celebdraug paused, then swung again.

_"What was that for?"_ Mordae hissed.

_"Calling me names."_

Mordae sighed and pushed her sword back with his dagger that he had grabbed from another guard. _"Where did he go?"_

Celebdraug pointed with her sword, and the two elves raced to follow the fleeing figure.

Cuthalion, hired mercenary of the Drow, pressed himself up against the backside of a tower as he ran. He paused and caught his breath, then peered around the corner. Three guards ran his direction, heading for the Great Hall, as he had hoped. The Drow smiled, and then nocked three arrows on his bow. He stepped out from his cover, in a crouch, and fired all three arrows, one at a time. The guards' bodies rolled, and then lay still. Cuthalion smiled again. _Infidels._

He reslung his bow and continued his run. Hearing a noise below him on a second wall, the assassin stopped. Making a quick calculation, Cuthalion leaped silently from the ledge, landing perfectly atop another guard. With a quick jerk of his legs, he snapped the guard's neck, and then let the body sink to the ground. He began to smile again, but his smile dissipated as two cloaked figures dropped beside him from above, weapons flashing.

Mordae attacked furiously, his daggers hissing through the air. The Drow's reflexes saved him from a bloody fate, but he still received many slashes across his chest from the Noldor's blades. Cuthalion drew his own daggers and counterattacked, his elven daggers shattering one, then the other, of Mordae's weapons.

Celebdraug lunged forward and stabbed at the dark elf's back, but Cuthalion whirled around and cut the blade from her stolen sword. She swore; the drow's weapons were far superior to the humans', and the elves were at a loss for their own. Celebdraug watched helplessly as the assassin turned back to her cousin and began to advance menacingly toward him.

Mordae stepped back into his fighting stance, bending his knees and raising his hands. He glared into his opponent's eyes as Cuthalion advanced, then attacked. Spinning to the side, Mordae grabbed the Drow's wrist and drove his elbow into him. There was a crunching sound as Cuthalion's wrist shattered, and the assassin hissed in pain

Mordae spun in a half circle and kicked at the dark elf's head, but Cuthalion ducked and thrust his good hand's knife into Mordae's calf. The elf gritted his teeth as his legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees. Cuthalion stabbed his dagger into Mordae's side, then pulled it out and prepared to slit his throat. Just before the knife sliced, however, he was driven back as Celebdraug tackled him, leaving Mordae to collapse, struggling to draw breath, his vision swimming.

Cuthalion struggled against her, reaching desperately into his cloak. His hand found the small, glowing orb he carried, and he pulled it out, just as Celebdraug wrapped her hands around his neck. As spots began to fill his vision, he hurled it into the air, where it exploded with a flash and a loud crack. He reached for his dagger that lay beside him, then swung it at Celebdraug's arms. She leaned back, letting the blades skim past her, then twisted the drow's arm back, driving the dagger into his chest.

Cuthalion let out a gasp as light flashed in his vision, quickly covered by the returning spots as the Noldorian girl lifted him by his throat. With a grunt, she hurled him the three meters over the edge of the wall. Mercifully, the Drow blacked out as he plummeted. Celebdraug stood silently for a moment as she listened, then set her jaw as the thud of the assassin's body sounded over the plain.

She whirled and bent to help Mordae, who was struggling to his feet. The wounded elf put his arm around Celebdraug's shoulder, and she lifted him, quickly moving toward a nearby door. Finding it locked, Celebdraug kicked it in and hurried inside. Glancing quickly around, the elf maiden realized that they were standing exactly where they wanted to be, the armory.

_"How's your side?"_

Mordae looked up at her from his kneeling position on the floor and laughed weakly. _"Been better, thanks,"_ he whispered, then he sighed. _"Get down."_

_"What?"_

He yelled this time, _"Get down!"_

Celebdraug nearly cried out as an arrow struck her back, hurling her into her cousin.

_"Damn it,"_ she hissed, rolling to the side and grasping at the arrow.

_"Hold still, it's not in too deeply,"_ Mordae attempted to console her, placing his hand on the shaft. _"Mi... met... neled!__2__."_

He pulled swiftly, and then covered the wound with a piece of cloth from his shirt. The elf looked up and gritted his teeth as a faint whistling sound began to grow. He lunged for the door, slamming it shut just in time; a moment later, the thud of several more arrows slamming into the wood echoed through the armory.

The panicked assembly that was fleeing the Great Hall stopped in horror as a shrill hiss filled the air. Those who regained their wits scattered, sprinting for cover. The others, who were still frozen, were not as lucky.

Mordae inspected the arrow he had pulled from Celebdraug's back. He looked up slowly into her eyes, and said the one word that confirmed their worst fears.

_"Drow."_

The screams of the dying men echoed in the elves' ears as death rained down from above.

1 An elvish curse

2 One, two, three


	7. Chapter VI: Fire and Broadswords

_**Chapter VI: Fire and Broadswords**_

Quickly overcoming their shock, Mordae and Celebdraug did their best to cover one another's wounds, then grabbed their weapons and bolted from the armory, heading for the Great Hall.

Just as they entered the first corridor, however, the sound of fast approaching footsteps reached their ears, and the two elves flattened themselves against the corner of a turn in the hallway, swords drawn and at the ready. They waited a moment, and then, two black uniformed Drow hurried around the edge of the wall, their own glittering swords drawn.

Mordae stepped out in front of them and swung hard, surprising the two soldiers. He removed the head of the dark elf closest to himself and his cousin, then whirled and engaged the other. Celebdraug moved quickly behind him, throwing knife in one hand, broadsword in the other, and swept around the corner.

She nearly stopped in surprise and anger as she recognized the advisor, the one Mordae had insisted was Drow, in between two more black clothed soldiers. He had removed his disguise, but remained similar looking, save the pointed ears, dark skin, and glowing eyes. Those eyes met hers as she whipped her hand with the knife back and hurled it into one of his escorts, and a dark voice filled her head.

We meet again, infidel. Now I may kill you without the primitives interfering. 

The advisor raised his hand and fired a tongue of dark flame at Celebdraug, who ducked the swing of the other soldier, then raised her own hand and called the fire to her. She struggled for a moment against the evil contained in it, but overcame it with a quick prayer to Illuvitar, the provider of her abilities.

The fire came together at a point in her palm, and she reveled in the feeling of power that came with it. Inhaling, Celebdraug drew yet more power to her, and then hurled it back at the advisor in a storm of red and white flame.

The escort who had just attacked her was hurled back, flaming, into the wall behind the advisor, who looked shocked, but struggled against the inferno. He reached out, parting the flame, then with a crack, vanished in a plume of dark smoke, only to reappear behind Mordae, who was battling with the surviving Drow. Celebdraug heard an evil laugh echo in her mind, and the Drow mage/advisor began sprinting down the hallway, away from the two Noldor.

Mordae nearly turned his head as the man passed, but thought against it as he whirled his sword up to block his opponent's blade. The Drow spun and swung low, but Mordae caught the dark-elf warrior's arm and spun him back the other direction, striking his victim in the chin with the hilt of his sword.

Releasing his grip on the soldier's arm, Mordae grabbed the man's throat instead and lifted him a half a meter in the air, pressing him against the wall. With a twirl of his shining sword, Mordae stabbed into the opening in the Drow's armor just above his gut. He let the body fall, and after confirming his opponent was dead, turned to Celebdraug.

Where did he go? he asked.

Without answering, Celebdraug sprinted off after the advisor, Mordae close on her heels.

The advisor came in sight just as they rounded the final corner of the corridor where it met the outer wall. Mordae, who had passed Celebdraug by a meter or so, was about to unsling his bow when he stopped short.

_"Agarwaen Udun!" _Celebdraug cried as she skidded into his back.

Mordae was barely shaken; rather, he pointed over the fleeing Drow's head out into the clearing around the Venyarohirrim capitol. The glare of thousands of orc torches reflected off his mìthril gloved hand.

_"That's not good," _Celebdraug said with a weak smile.

Mordae shook his head, not taking his eyes off the horde that approached.

_"Not good at all,"_ he replied.

The fleeing Drow, Maneva Mornië, founder and leader of the Remnant, the combined army of the Drow, vampires, lychens, and orcs, looked over his shoulder as he exited the hallway. His pursuit, whatever they were, had stopped. He counted himself blessed; the warriors, which he had decided were High Elves, possibly even the Noldor which he had heard so much about, had made quick work of the elite guards which had moments ago been escorting him. Mornië shuddered as he recalled his own weapon, fire, being turned against him. He definitely did not want to wait around and see if his assailants had any other tricks that they were capable of.

He gazed out into the sea of orcs, trolls, and uruk-hai, the orc elites, awaiting his signal to charge into the city. He _definitely_ did not want to stay.

Mornië raised his right hand and called up a ball of shimmering black flame, making a glaring contrast against the white of the capitol city. He held it up until a moment later, three bats fluttered to him from the rear of the army. The bats flew in a quick circle, then, with a pop, transformed into men with long, flowing, black hair and blood red capes. The two smaller wore shining black armor with a red elven 'r' rune1 emblazoned on it, while the one in the center had golden runes. That man smiled, revealing two long, white fangs. Vampires.

The center vampire saluted crisply and spoke, his voice a hissing rasp, "You reqvesssted pickup, Sssir?"

Mornië returned the salute slightly, "'tis about time, I was beginning to wonder if thou had decided to abandon me here, Vrayon."

The vampire leered, "I vould never dream of it, sssir."

"Of course not. If thee would?"

"Sssorry. Right avay, sssir."

Vrayon, the head general of the vampire army, held out a clawed hand toward Mornië. A red mist swirled from his palm, enveloping the Drow, who disappeared with a soft popping noise, only to reappear at the rear of the army.

He shook his head to clear it, feeling dazed, and muttered to the other three generals who had stood awaiting him, "I will never get used to that."

They laughed politely and bowed, Mornië acknowledging them with a curt nod.

Turdú, the Drow general and second-in-command of the four combined armies, stepped forward. His appearance was similar to Mornië's, with the same dark purple skin, though Turdú was slightly taller. Despite the height, he was still not as imposing as his commander.

He spoke, his voice low and smooth, "We have done as thou hast commanded, my lord. We have begun firing into the city. Our assassin slew the infidels' leader as well, though the front lines report seeing his body hurled from the wall."

Grishnákh, the orc's general, growled, his yellow eyes glowing on his sickly red and black-splotched skin. "Casualties are of no consequence."

Turdú turned slowly to the orc, rising to his full six and a half foot height. "Drow, unlike thy soldiers, are far more than brainless scourge."

The final general, Garulf, the commander of the lychens, held up his hand. He stood a little taller than six feet, but the Drow stopped anyway. The lychen appeared similar to a human, save for the solid blood-red eyes. His voice was harsh, with a hint of an animal-like growl behind it.

"We cannot let petty disputes hinder our progress," he chided the two arguing generals.

Turdú looked down smugly, "Yes, not like thou and the vampire. The two of thee get along so well," he said with a hint of sarcasm in his calm voice.

Mornië was about to comment when he was startled by a pop as Vrayon dropped lightly to the ground beside them. He had a large cut across his face, but no blood flowed from it; rather, it seemed to be naught but an empty chasm.

"Fiesssty little ratsss," he hissed to himself. Looking up suddenly, as though just noticing the others, Vrayon smiled.

"Ze Drow cannot shoot forever, my lord. You may vant to order ze troopsss to charge, no?"

Mornië returned the smile, "Ah yes, thank you. At least one of my generals is on task."

He turned to Grishnákh and nodded.

The orc growled at Vrayon, then threw back his head and roared to the troops in the black speech. His bellow echoed ominously, growing in volume as his kin took up his cry and surged forward, prepared to deal out death to all who stood in their path.

1 r


	8. Chapter VII: A Glimpse of the Past

_**Chapter VII: A Glimpse of the Past**_

Mordae gathered himself for a moment on the wall where he stood watching the approaching horde. He had watched as the vampires stole his prey from him, seeming unable to move. As soon as the Drow had disappeared, Mordae had charged at the creatures, intent on striking them down where they stood. However, the vampires' reflexes nearly rivaled that of the elves, and he had only been able to slash the leader across the face before the creature disappeared. Celebdraug had been able to use the distraction to kill one of the others, his ashes scattering over the wall, but the last had escaped as well.

Mordae grinned and looked at Celebdraug as the orcs cried, a sound that chilled most beings.

_"Battle time," _she said, returning his smile.

Mordae raised his bow and began firing into the oncoming sea of black that threatened to sweep away the whole city.

The dark forces surged forward, hindered only by the arrows from the two elves. Despite the constant barrage they fired, Celebdraug and Mordae knew they would barely make a dent in the attack.

Before long, a small legion of surviving soldiers rallied to the gate below the elves' position, drew their swords, and stood waiting, faces white.

Mordae stopped firing and turned to the highest-ranking officer.

"Is this all that thou can supply?" he shouted down to him. "Are there not more soldiers that can fight?"

The officer shook his head.

Celebdraug nocked three more arrows and fired them, tracing their trajectories into three unfortunate uruks in the front lines. She turned and spoke to the officer as well.

"We will take anyone who can hold a weapon. Any assistance will be useful."

The officer nodded and barked orders to several of the soldiers, who left and returned shortly, bringing a few more men and women carrying surplus swords.

Celebdraug shook her head slightly.

These people are pathetic. 

Doomed, Mordae answered.

You said it. 

She sighed and raised her sword, flames licking down the blade. Her voice was amplified as she cried out to the terrified soldiers.

"We stand here as our kindred have stood a hundredfold times, outnumbered and staring death itself in the face! But I say to you, that we shall triumph, as they did! Orc and Drow shall fall at thy feet! Stand firm, and fight!"

The officer, encouraged by Celebdraug's optimism, cried out to his troops, "Forth, Eorlinglas!"

The elves leaped down from the wall, landing lightly in front of the Venyarohirrim, facing the city gate.

There was a dull thud as the orc battering ram struck the gate, and the walls shook slightly. The orcs cried out, and again, the ram shook the walls. With a final cry and a final blow, the gates of New Edoras succumbed to the dark forces, and the men and elves surged forward to meet their foes in battle.

In the front of the small resistance force of men, Celebdraug rushed forward alongside Mordae, her flaming sword raised, screaming a war cry at the top of her lungs. She could feel the adrenaline rush of battle surge through her; she could taste the fear and surprise of the orcs in the front line at the gate.

She reached the orcs, tensed, and swung her sword. The blade cleaved through four orcs in front of her, and then she was surrounded. Back slashing, she slew two more of the foul creatures. The ring of her sword and the hiss of the black blood evaporating in the heat of the flame echoed around her as she fought. With another swing, she felled three more assailants.

Expendables, Celebdraug said to Mordae.

Fun, he answered.

Mordae smashed his left fist into a nearby orc's face while he thrust his blade into another to his right. Spinning, he drew the sword from the chest of his victim and crushed yet another enemy's throat with a chopping blow of his hand. The elf twirled his sword in a quick arc, slicing the heads from two more attackers.

Mordae smiled despite the situation as he watched Celebdraug raise her sword ludicrously high and smash an orc over his comrades. Her brutal attacks, though sometimes overkills, were always very impressive. Seeing the success the elves were having on the surrounding army, the men were rallied and charged forward, adding their swords to the assault.

Grishnákh growled as he neared the gate with his battalion of uruk-hai. He peered over the top of the smaller orcs through the opening in the wall. The orc could see a few of his troops running through the city behind the defenders, but noticed a large mass of his men's bodies just beyond the gate where the two elves Vrayon had been complaining about stood their ground.

'Good,' Grishnákh thought to himself; he wanted to watch them die.

He analyzed the situation, then roared to his elite men, "Kill the one with the lightning sword!"

Celebdraug watched as the incoming uruks drove toward Mordae. She looked out over the black horde to the orc captain, distinguished by the golden 'r' rune, rather than the red of the standard Remnant soldiers.

As she continued her assault with her sword, Celebdraug shot her left hand to her wrist and withdrew a twenty-centimeter long, double bladed throwing knife.

She locked eyes with the orc, then hurled the blade over the heads of his minions. Before the knife had even hit, she had returned her attention back to the assault.

Grishnákh had barely enough time to move slightly to avoid the elf's deadly attack. He threw his head back and roared in pain as the knife shattered his armor and drove between his shoulder and neck. His uruks, seeing their leader injured, roared in angry response, surging toward their commander's attacker.

Behind them, Grishnákh cursed to himself as he stumbled back toward the command tent, gritting his teeth against the pain as he removed the elven dagger from his shoulder. Obviously, he alone could not bring the Noldor down.

_"Nice shot, Celebdraug."_

She turned in surprise to see Mordae standing behind her.

_"Where'd you come from?"_ she asked, in bewilderment after slashing one orc in half and kicking away another.

_"Well, when a mommy elf and a daddy elf fall in love..."_

_"Shut up,"_ Celebdraug answered with a smile.

Mordae grinned, then thrust his sword over her shoulder. Celebdraug heard an orc shriek, and glanced down his blade to see it embedded solidly in one of the creature's faces.

_"I could've taken him," _she said, twirling around and blocking another attack with such ferocity that it shattered her opponent's sword. She grinned viciously at the orc, then drove her blade into his chest.

_"Not with his sword in your stomach."_ her cousin answered, sweeping past her and smashing his shoulder into a large uruk, causing it to fall backward and crush several of the smaller orcs around it.

Celebdraug whipped a dagger from her belt and slit another fell creature's throat with it, and then flung the body into Mordae, who spun around and sliced it in half, then stabbed the body before he realized it was already dead.

_"Not cool."_

Celebdraug stuck her tongue out at him, then turned away and looked at the ragtag company of men that still survived.

She looked back to Mordae, who was busy taunting three uruk soldiers, all of whom looked incredibly angry with him.

Charge? she asked.

He jumped lightly over the three uruk-hai's heads, doing a front flip and a half rotation in midair, then with a flex of his rippling muscles beneath his bloodstained black cloak, slashed his sword through all three of the creatures' heads before they could turn around.

Showoff. 

He ignored her, took a quick look at the forces they still had, and then answered, Why not? I'll sound it. 

She nodded in conformation.

Raising his glowing sword to the sky, Mordae cried out the ancient Noldorian battle cry not heard for nearly two ages in battle, _"Utúlie'n aurë! Aiya Eldalie an Atári! Utúlie'n aurë!"__1_

The men took heart at the sight of the heroes, looking something like a glorious picture from the history books, but did not respond, unsure of what to do.

Celebdraug turned to them, a venomous smile on her face, eyes glowing with a red fire, and translated simply; "Charge."

1 The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and fathers of men! The day has come!


	9. Chapter VIII: Reflections of the Future

_**Chapter IIX: Reflections of the Future**_

Grishnákh had nearly reached the other generals when he heard the defenders cry out again and the clash of weapons echoed across the battlefield again.

"Bangrok!"1

He slowed as he reached the command tent, then stopped as he noticed the two dark figures swathed in loose black cloaks leaning against a nearby tree. The taller figure stepped ominously from the shadows, revealing Turdú.

The Drow smiled smugly, then spoke in a sarcastically singsong voice, "So, the great war machine of the orc is stopped by two elves. What a surprise."

Grishnákh roared and clenched the bloody knife in his hand.

"The Noldor may have stopped me, dark elf," he growled, "but you are not one of them!"

The orc cocked his arm back, surprised at the lightness of the knife, then hurled it at his fellow general.

The smaller figure bolted from its position and plucked the blade from the air before it neared Turdú.

The figure, Dilotè, Turdú's captain, inspected the throwing weapon, and then smiled as she flicked the knife to Vrayon, who had just exited the tent. She pushed a strand of her long black hair from her eyes, then held a glittering black sword up to Grishnákh's neck.

Vrayon looked slowly from face to face, then to the knife. He raised one eyebrow, held up the knife, and licked the blood from it. He looked thoughtful, as if considering its taste, then raised his head.

"My comradesss," he hissed, looking coolly into the others' eyes, "could ve pleasssse focussss on ze humansss, not one each ozer?"

His eyes locked with Turdú's, "Order your men to move in."

The Drow raised his chin in defiance.

"Pleassse."

After a moment, Turdú drew his own black sword, then turned to Dilotè, and with a small motion of his hand, ordered her to lower her sword, which she reluctantly did.

The Drow's normally calm voice took on a harsh tone,_"Noro'ammen."__2_

Vrayon smiled, then threw back his head and let out a shriek that chilled Grishnákh's blood, and no doubt the Drow, though they did not show it. With a flutter of wings, a horde of bats swirled to him, and he joined them with a pop. The swarm spun in a dark vortex, then whirled off toward the city.

Shaking his head, Grishnákh entered the command tent, where Garulf's growling bass startled him.

The wolfman stood. "Could you please try to act more civil? They look down on us and say we are naught but beasts. Your actions support their assumption."

Grishnákh growled in begrudging agreement.

Garulf took a step toward the orc, a sinister smile growing on his face. There was a flash of dark energy, and the normally pensive human was replaced with an eight foot tall, black furred wolf-like biped with muscles that rippled even more impressively than the Noldor's.

The creature's red eyes glowed, Let us prove to them that our brains match our brawn. Ready your warg riders. 

Garulf dropped to all fours, admitting Grishnákh onto his back, then bolted from the tent, his eerie howl echoing through the forest, taken up by his men.

When Grishnákh added his roar and those of his kin to it, he felt elation beyond any other he had felt leading the countless armies he had.

_We're coming._

Celebdraug swept upwards with her sword, blocking the attack of the uruk closest to her. The creature's sword jerked upward as the elf rebounded and twirled, striking off the head of another enemy before driving her sword back into her original assailant. Her eye's met Mordae's, and she grinned. The charge was such a surprise to the attackers that they had driven halfway through the oncoming swarm. The morale of the men and women along with them soared.

A thought entered Mordae's mind, a phrase his commanding officer from so many thousands of years ago had often told him during officers' training.

_When the attack is going far too well, it is not luck; it is an ambush._

A staccato of pops split the sky like a roll of thunder as hundreds of vampire soldiers transformed above the defenders and dropped in atop them, blood red blades shimmering in the light of the torches.

As the crimson cloaks swirled to the ground, the screams of the dying men echoed across the battlefield. A man in front of Celebdraug took a dagger from a vampire straight through the top of his head, dropping him to the stony ground. His killer withdrew the blade, licked it, and then began advancing on her.

As it raised the massive sword in its other hand, Celebdraug bolted forward, far faster than the vampire had assumed her capable, and thrust her sword into the creature's chest. She felt a shudder run through the blade, and the vampire dissolved into ashes with an ear-piercing shriek.

Turning to attack another vampire, Celebdraug heard a sword ring behind her, and she whirled around just in time to see a Drow soldier crumpling to the ground, Mordae standing over him in a low defensive stance as the dark elf's comrades advanced.

Celebdraug grabbed a nearby orc and hurled it into the oncoming Drow, then launched herself in the air after it. She felt something slam into her while she was still off the ground, and she hit with a jarring thud as her assailant landed atop her. Celebdraug looked up into the blood red and black streaked eyes of a vampire.

The creature bared its teeth and reached for her throat, but she slid her hand up under him and jammed it into the vampire's ribs. Hissing, the vampire rolled to the side, reaching instinctively for its side. Celebdraug began to reach for her sword, but there was a bright flash, and the creature dissolved into ashes as Mordae's sword drove through its chest.

Celebdraug kicked back up to a standing position and called her sword to her, using the link she held through Illúvatar to her weapon. She began to thank Mordae, but he stopped her with a quick gesture and cried out to her in his mind.

Duck! 

She dropped to the ground immediately, and Mordae leaped over her, knocking an orc rider from his perch and driving her sword into him as he fell.

He grabbed a hold of the reins and began attempting to turn the warg back to face its kin, but before he could, it raised itself onto its hind legs, something that wargs never did.

The creature, whatever it was, reached back behind itself and plucked Mordae from its back with what seemed like ease. The Noldor kicked the wolf in the gut as hard as he could, a blow that would kill any man or other elf, but the creature instead, doubled over slightly, and then stood again.

There was a spurt of flame as Celebdraug sliced the creature's arm that held Mordae off, dropping him to the ground. With a roar, the huge wolf raised its good arm and swung. There was a crack of dark energy, and the wolf transformed into a muscular humanoid wielding a massive battle-axe.

Celebdraug leaped backward over Mordae, who rolled toward the creature and swung up with his sword, slicing in half the assailant, which the Noldor now recognized as a lychen.

Mordae stood, sweat beginning to break out on his forehead, and looked at Celebdraug, who met his gaze.

This party just got a lot messier, she said with a grimace.

You said it. 

1 An orcish swear word

2 Let's roll


	10. Chapter IX: Weapons of Mass Destruction

Chapter XIX: Blades in the Night 

In the great white city of Minas Tirith, Eldarion, Son of Aragorn and King of Belgor, hurried to his throne in the royal chambers.

Upon reaching his destination, the King glanced apprehensively over his shoulder, scanning for any watchers. Seeing no one, he pushed the throne aside, revealing a trapdoor concealed beneath the intricate rug.

Reaching down hurriedly, Eldarion jerked a hidden lever upward, causing the trapdoor to swing ominously inward, opening into a dark chasm lit only by a few meager torches.

Eldarion lowered himself into the dimly lit room, flicking another switch to close the trapdoor. He made his way to the center of the small room, where he sat in a large chair before a golden pedestal, on which sat a glowing orb.

Reaching out his right hand, on which sat the third elven ring of power, he placed it upon the orb, and closing his eyes, spoke in a low voice.

"Come, Isildur, father of my people," he murmured, calling forth the spirit of an ancient Numenorian hero with whom he had communed with on many an occasion before. In fact, it had been Isildur who convinced Eldarion to overthrow his father as king.

A green mist began to swirl inside the orb, and as the sea of emerald whirled about, he heard a voice, detached and echoing, inside his head. "I am here."

"My lord, the Venyarohirrim move about as if preparing for war. What shall I do to bring glory to our blessed country?"

"Send an army to New Edoras," the spirit replied, "Crush them at their head."

"New Edoras?" Eldarion asked in surprise, "Are we strong enough, lord?"

"With my assistance, you shall be."

Eldarion nodded, eyes still closed. "Of course," he responded as he began to rise from his seat to set the troops in motion, "It shall be done."

South of Belgor, in the tower of Baradu, the fortress of the Drow, Maneva Mornië cackled to himself as he turned away from his own swirling sapphire orb.

He turned to face his three generals, Turdú was on mission in Isen Meares, and chuckled, "Impressionable humans. They will believe anything a 'spirit' tells them."

The other three Remnant laughed as well.

"What are they doing now, sir?" Garulf asked, blinking his solid black eyes.

"Sssending zeir army to attack ze hobbitsssess?" Vrayon asked, tapping his glittering black claws on the nearby window-ledge.

Even Garulf laughed at this mental picture.

"No," Mornië answered after the laughter ceased, "Even better. They go to strike a _grievous_blow to the Venyarohirrim; at New Edoras."

"Where our troops will crush them," Grishnákh said as if stumbling upon the revelation of the Fourth Age.

"Congratulationsss," Vrayon scoffed with a mocking smile, "You vin anozer sticker for your shiny black armor."

Grishnákh growled, but Garulf's hand restrained the orc from unleashing his anger on the smaller vampire.

"Vhat of ze elvesss?" Vrayon asked, ignoring Grishnákh's outrage at the insult.

"Which ones?" Mornië asked ignorantly.

"You know of vhich I ssspeak."

The Supreme Commander of the Remnant sighed, "I know not where the Udunaedos are, but I shall find them, do not worry. I shall find them, and then," he grinned viciously, "They shall die."

In the darkness at the base of the Misty Mountains, a troop of a half dozen orcs scoured for food in the moonlight, searching for small animals to feed them and their kin. Little did they suspect that the hunters were now the prey.

There was a sudden explosion of white powder as two enormous figures clothed in all white burst upward from where they were buried, swords whirling. The orcs shrieked and aimed their bows, but were all struck down quickly and efficiently before they could fire.

The largest attacker bent over one of the orcs and rolled the headless body over onto its back.

_"Moria filth,"_ the attacker, Mordae, spat contemptuously.

The other figure, Celebdraug, smiled imperceptibly under her facemask._ "Good."_

Mordae sheathed his glowing sword and gazed up into the night sky, _"We should get to the mountain peak before we pitch camp; we'll be able to see if more of these losers want to play soldier with us."_

Celebdraug nodded, _"It'll make a good sniper position, too."_

Her cousin nodded, _"Indeed. Let's bury the bodies."_

_"Shouldn't we give them a proper burial?" _Celebdraug asked.

Mordae shrugged nonchalantly.

Celebdraug kicked the nearest body unceremoniously and spat on it. _"There. Let's do this."_

A few moments later, the two elves scrambled swiftly and invisibly up the now banks, leaving no trace save scuffed snow that covered the bodies of the newest victims of the Udunaedos.

Mordae and Celebdraug climbed quickly, floating atop the deep snow as if it were solid ground, climbing cliffs with the aid of their daggers, all the while keeping hidden from prying orc eyes.

They reached the peak within an hour, where they unfurled their sleeping packs.

_"Damn, it's cold up here,"_ Mordae hissed.

_"Quit your whining, hobbit-breath."_

_"Thanks for the sympathy," _he muttered, tightening his blanket around his shoulders.

_"Glad to be of service."_ There was silence for a moment. _"How far is Moria?"_ Celebdraug inquired.

_"The gate?" _Mordae responded, _"Couple hundred leagues. The tunnels probably go for leagues around, but the gate is the only entrance I know."_

_"Then we'll get some skiing in?"_ Celebdraug asked brightly.

_"I think we might have to force ourselves to,"_ Mordae answered with a smile.

_"Darn,"_ Celebdraug complained sarcastically. _"Nidanostre."_

_"Nidanostre."_

In the northernmost section of Ithilien forest, Dúnhere, a lieutenant of the Venyarohirrim entrusted with commanding those guarding the south flank of the resting army, rested up against a tree, glancing about lazily. He did not expect anything terribly interesting to happen; the nearest Fellowship encampment was over a hundred leagues away, and the huge Venyarohirrim army that he defended was far more than a match for any attackers.

"Hey, Hama!" Dúnhere called out to the man he had placed in the closest proximity to himself.

There was no response.

"Hama?"

Now a slight rustling sound emanated from the bushes in the general direction of where Dúnhere had left Hama. Dúnhere reached slowly for his sword as he took a tentative step toward the sound, his eyes sweeping back and forth.

"Hama, no games here. Report, now!"

There was an explosion of leaves and twigs as a dark form launched itself from behind Dúnhere, who spun as quickly as he could to face the new threat.

_"Report this, infidel,"_ a woman's voice hissed in a tongue Dúnhere had read only in ancient documents back in his village's museum as the form smashed its forearm across his head, hurling him to the ground.

A long, thin, black blade swung artfully up to Dúnhere's neck, resting its tip against his Adam's apple.

The Venyarohirrim lieutenant held up his hands, dropping his sword to the ground beside him in a gesture of surrender.

_"The Halda'ohtar take no prisoners."_

Dúnhere swallowed at the coldness in his captor's voice.

"Could you make an exception?" he croaked in a weak attempt at humor.

The woman laughed, a sound that was strangely melodious for her harsh actions. _"I think not."_

The samurai sword swept upward in a massive arc, promising death with the downswing, its dark blade shimmering in the moonlight like water.

Before the Drow could strike, there was another explosion of leaves as an arrow ripped through the branches. Dilotè, the assassin, spun to avoid her demise and caught the bolt in the shoulder, causing her to lose her weapon.

She swore in elvish as she glared into the darkness from whence the arrow had come. Dúnhere took advantage of the distraction, bolting for his sword as the Drow tried to recover.

From the side came yet another ambush; this time it was Dacil who attacked, his sword outstretched toward the Drow maiden.

Dilotè lashed out with her foot, deflecting Dacil's sword away from her as she drew her other sword and hurled it into the blackness before her. A woman's voice cried out as the blade slashed through the brush. Moments later, Athfaë stumbled out from the trees, a long, bleeding gash running across her side.

Dilotè stood in the center of the three Venyarohirrim, the arrow still embedded in her shoulder, glaring into each of their eyes in turn.

"Surrender," Athfaë hissed angrily, lowering her sword until the blade pointed directly at Dilotè's chest.

Dacil and Dúnhere matched Athfaë's maneuver, lowering their weapons at the Drow maiden.

Dilotè smiled a curious, mystical smile as she turned her blade handle toward her captors, the tip pointing directly at her own stomach.

_"Ten'lot__1__," _she whispered quietly, raising her sword.

Dacil shot a quick glance at Athfaë, then lunged forward, grabbing the Drow's weapon at the blade, slicing his hand open on the sharp edge, but preventing Dilotè from completing her honor-suicide that was legendary of the Halda'ohtar.

Dilotè hissed and let out a tiny scream of frustration as she tried with all her might to force the blade into herself.

"No!" Athfaë cried, "We will not allow it!"

Dilotè paused in her struggle long enough to spit on Athfaë, who did not even flinch.

"Take her down," she ordered.

_"Infidels!"_ a baritone voice shouted as Turdú dropped form the branches above, his glittering broadsword shining with his rage.

The Venyarohirrim split immediately, allowing Dilotè to launch herself over their heads.

"Go!"Turdú shouted to her.

The Captain did not move.

"Move, now, Captain! Dilotè, that is an order!"

The Drow maiden swept her sword from the ground and bolted off into the trees, leaving Turdú to face the three Venyarohirrim.

"Well, gentlemen, my lady, it has been a pleasure," the Drow said smoothly, "But I really must be off. Good night to thee."

Athfaë lunged forward, intent on not letting another captive escape, but Turdú held up a glowing hand, causing a mist of dark smoke to wreath up from the ground between them.

By the time it had cleared, the only signs that the Drow had been there were the destroyed bushes and Hama's body.

1 For honor


	11. Chapter X: Catfight From Udun

_**Chapter X: Catfight from Udun**_

Deorwine felt a shockwave blast through her and the other surviving Venyarohirrim, hurling down the hall, ripping tapestries and shattering vases. She was hurled to the ground along with the rest of her fellow men, the sound of their armor ringing down the passageway.

The room was lit up with a white-red glow, and a dull roar filled the humans' ears.

"Damn," Deorwine hissed as she rolled and stood against the wall, feeling the crackling energy surge through her.

The blast subsided in a few moments, leaving the bedraggled men and women of New Edoras, numbering a score over one hundred, to stumble to their feet.

"What was that?" somebody in the company cried to Deorwine.

"That," she responded with a smile, "is the distraction that will save us. Follow me, people."

The survivors paused, then raced after her as she sprinted toward the hidden road.

Dilotè charged at the head of the shattered Remnant army, her two long, black blades drawn, ready to deal out death to those who had so shamed her glorious army.

Beside her ran Turdú, the general she had sworn to serve, and had now developed a sort of attraction to, though she was afraid to show it. He too had his swords drawn, and his black eyes blazed.

The two reached the door to the main hall at the same time, and Dilotè reached out her half-fingered gloved hand to attempt to wrench the door open.

Turdú reached out and touched her hand with his own, and she glanced up sharply at him. He smiled and pushed her hand back, then leaped up and spun in a complete circle, lashing out with a viscous kick at the conclusion of his rotation.

The door exploded from its hinges, slamming into the floor of the hall. The sound of human voices echoed down the hall to them, and Dilotè smiled, lighting up her light purple-tinted face.

_"Race you,"_ Dilotè said to Turdú in the elven tongue.

"Common speech, Captain, we're on Remnant business here," Turdú chided, though he said it more mechanically than with actual force.

Dilotè smiled mischievously as she bolted into the human palace, calling over her shoulder, _"Court-martial me if you catch up!"_

Turdú shook his head, Dilotè never ceased to amaze him. But now she was nearly 100 meters down the hall, and he knew from his years of experience with her as his Captain that he would have a bit of trouble catching up.

Deorwine reached the swinging bookcase that hid the Freawold, the secret road that connected all large Venyarohirrim cities. She pushed aside the books where she knew the lever would be hidden, and paused in surprise as she saw the dust on the lever was smeared where somebody had used it recently. With a shrug, Deorwine pulled the lever upward and stepped back, letting the bookcase swing back to reveal a long dark chasm lit by torches down the passageway.

"What is that?" the highest ranking surviving officer, a lieutenant, asked her.

"The Freawold. Top-secret government project linking all major cities. It's a backup system in case of this exact situation, an invasion, so that the population can escape un-harassed."

"And you know about this...how?" the lieutenant inquired.

"Lieutenant Colonel Athfaë Qualmë, special operations agent."

The lieutenant looked dazed, "But...but...you're a...servan..."

"Undercover military agent. Sent to protect the king."

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

"Alright, so I didn't exactly pull off my mission. But you need to trust me. Get the people out of here."

The man paused, then saluted. "Yes ma'am."

He turned to the people, "Let's move! Down the passage, move quickly, and keep silent!"

"Thank you, lieutenant," Athfaë said. She waited until all the people had passed, then, just as she was about to close the bookcase, the unexpected hit her.

The unexpected was Dilotè, and she was angry. Her black blades hissed through the air at Athfaë, who blocked desperately with her own sword, which was of a higher quality than the regular infantry's, allowing it to stand up to the beating it received from the Drow's weapons.

The men and women in the passageway paused in terror as they watched their leader slash the attacker across the leg, then get knocked to her knees by the over six foot tall Drow woman.

Turdú rounded the corner just in time to see Dilotè slammed into the far wall as a Venyarohirrim lieutenant tackled her, knocking her away from the servant girl.

"Go!" the lieutenant screamed to the woman on the ground, "Go!"

The servant girl stood and grabbed the bookcase that hung from the wall, then swung it into place, the sound of a complex series of locks closing it in place.

Turdú swore, pounding fruitlessly on the door for a second, then turned to face his Captain and the lieutenant that was attacking her.

Dilotè's swords lay on the ground, just out of her reach, and the lieutenant was on top of her, dagger drawn and pointed toward her throat, trying his best to overpower her and plunge it downward.

The two struggled for a moment, then Dilotè swung upward with her leg, striking the man in the back of the head, momentarily stunning him. She took advantage of the distraction, shooting her right hand up to his throat.

The lieutenant coughed, his airway suddenly constricted. Dilotè swung her leg around the man's neck from behind and pushed down, pulling herself on top of him. Before the lieutenant could react, she wrenched the dagger from his hand and plunged it into his chest. The man struggled for a moment, then collapsed.

Dilotè pulled her other leg out from underneath his body, and began to stand up. She got to one leg, but the other gave out underneath her, blood running freely from a wound that she had received from Athfaë. Turdú was beside her in an instant, extending his hand to assist her in rising.

_"Thank you," _she said with a small smile, insisting on continuing her use of elvish while not in the presence of any other Remnant soldiers.

Turdú was about to reprimand her, but he stopped as his eyes met hers.

After exhaling slightly, he held out her swords to her in his other hand. She took them, and as he began to pull away, he spoke over his shoulder.

_"Not a problem, Captain."_


	12. Chapter XI: Hit and Run

_**Chapter XI: Hit and Run**_

Aragorn smiled to himself at the elves' ability to maintain their sarcasm even under great stress. He reached a hand out to assist Celebdraug in mounting onto his horse, but she swatted his hand away and gracefully leaped the two meters up onto the back of the great steed. Mordae mirrored her maneuver and planted himself behind another Dunedain soldier.

Raising his fingers to his lips, Aragorn let out a shrill whistle, the 'follow me' signal, and whirled his horse toward a large clearing they had passed through on the way to save the elves. He felt Celebdraug fumbling around with the assorted weapons she was carrying, and he chanced a look over his shoulder.

She paused and raised her eyebrows as she felt his gaze on her.

_"What?"_

Aragorn looked at the double bladed knife she held in her hand.

_"Don't poke me with anything."_

She laughed slightly, then lightly jabbed him in his chain-mail armored side.

_"You can walk, you know,"_ he warned her.

Celebdraug reached over his shoulder with blinding speed and gave the reins a slight tug, pulling the horse around a tree it had been heading toward.

_"Shut up and steer,"_ she chided mockingly, returning to her work of rearranging the personal arsenal arrayed on her body.

Mordae leaned closer to the rider whose horse he rode on.

_"Took you guys long enough to get here!"_ he hissed into the man's ear.

The rider, an elf named Glorfindel with whom Mordae had worked with several times in his life, and who had become the cousins' best friend, turned his hooded head and smiled, _"We stopped for a snack. Then we had a nice chat with some Ents. And then we went shopping. And then we all had to watch Legolas prance around. And then..."_

_"Glorfindel."_

_"Yes?"_

Mordae paused, _"Nice to see you."_

Glorfindel raised his blonde eyebrows, _"Wow, that was..."_

_"Now shut up."_

_"There it is."_

The two elves laughed mirthfully.

Aragorn looked across through the trees at the two and cut his hand across his throat in a slashing motion_"Aww, come on, man,"_ Mordae whined.

_"We are within a mile of a huge army of Remnant forces,"_ Aragorn replied in a hushed tone.

_"And you are within a few meters of being a real Galadriel in a man's body,"_ Celebdraug hissed at the Numenorian, who rolled his eyes and moved further away from Mordae and Glorfindel.

_"What's your problem?"_ Celebdraug asked him as she finished attaching her final knife.

Aragorn sighed and shook his head a little, _"Nothing."_

_"Oh, come on, you can tell me,"_ Celebdraug said, doing her best to sound consoling.

_"My dear,"_ Aragorn said, turning slightly to look at her, _"I have watched you kill men twice my size with one empty hand while you used the other to twist a dagger you have previously embedded in somebody else's chest. No tone of voice is going to make me think you're cute and harmless."_

Celebdraug shrugged, then moved with lightning speed, drawing a knife from her belt and wrapping her arm around Aragorn's neck. He cried out in surprise and nearly ran them off the path they were following, but managed to maintain control.

_"Tell me what's wrong, or I'll slit your throat,"_ the Noldorian woman growled playfully.

Aragorn took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, then sighed again._ "Arwen."_

_"My name is Celebdraug."_

Aragorn snorted_. "Funny,"_ he admitted sarcastically. _"I haven't seen her for nearly three months."_

Now Celebdraug snorted and made the motion of a tear running down her cheek.

_"Just because you've never been able to get a guy doesn't mean you have to be insensitive to the rest of us who have healthy relationships,"_ Aragorn quipped in a mocking tone.

Celebdraug paused and looked up at the treetops, as if considering something, then reached behind herself and drew her flaming sword.

_"I have a good relationship with this."_

Aragorn shook his head, _"You're pathetic."_

_"Do you really mean it?"_

Before Aragorn could respond, the Dunedain were upon the clearing, and in a moment, all the horse and riders had assembled.

Aragorn hopped off, muttering, _"Thank Illúvatar,"_ under his breath as he hurried away from Celebdraug.

Glorfindel leaped from his horse as well, striding to meet his General.

_"What's our plan of action, hobbit-kisser?"_ the elf asked Aragorn.

Ignoring the attempt to rile him up, Aragorn stroked his beard, which stood out in stark contrast against the clean faces of his elven elite troops with whom he rode.

_"How long do you think we have until those dirt bags find us?"_ he asked.

Glorfindel shot a glance into the forest, then to Mordae and Celebdraug as they drew up alongside the two conferring generals and shrugged in their direction.

_"Let's roll,"_ Celebdraug hissed, fingering one of the long daggers she held in her hand.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows,_ "Sounds urgent."_

Mordae cocked his head to the side; he held his bow in one hand, his other absently stroking the fletching of a nocked arrow.

He spoke quietly, _"You don't hear them?"_

Aragorn cocked his head, and then slowly nodded his head in confirmation. _"No."_

The elves sighed. Glorfindel held up a hand and listened closely.

_"I believe I hear them. They sound far off, though," _he said.

Mordae shook his head, _"They're quite close. There are too many of them for us to fight right now, and if we don't leave soon, we're not going to make it."_

_"Always the voice of optimism, Mordae,"_ Glorfindel sang, giving the other elf a mocking glance.

_"Sorry. Well, it might be fun to have our guts ripped out by two hundred angry wolfmen, but I sorta had plans for Valarsday night,"_ Mordae answered in a sarcastic, slightly angry-sounding voice.

_"Oh, come now, where's your sense of adventure?"_ Celebdraug asked scornfully.

Mordae was about to reply when a lychen burst through the bushes and charged right toward the foursome, which scattered in different directions. The sound of a hundred elven bows loosing their arrows split the general silence, and the lychen was hurled into the air by the force of the projectiles. Even before the hole-ridden body could hit the dusty ground, Aragorn was calling out his order.

_"Mount up! We ride for Anduin!! Ride!!"_

The four generals bolted for the two horses they were sharing, and the army thundered north, toward the last remaining stronghold of light; Lorien.


	13. Chapter XII: Fight to the Fords

_**Chapter XII: Fight to the Fords**_

The cavalry group raced north for an hour, firing the occasional arrow over their shoulder at the incessant lychens that never abandoned their chase.

Mordae rode with Glorfindel in the front of the group, alongside Aragorn and Celebdraug. The larger of the two elves cast a glance over his shoulder at Celebdraug.

_"Do those guys have something personal against us or something?_" the giant groaned.

His cousin shrugged, _"I don't know. We killed all their friends, but other than that, we've done nothing to them."_

_"I hate people that hold grudges. I always have. I always will,"_ Mordae commented in a deadpan voice.

_"Me too,"_ Glorfindel added, still looking straight ahead as he rode, _"Almost as much as I hate people who hate people who hold grudges."_

_"Almost,"_ Celebdraug continued, _"As much as I hate people who hate people who hate people who hold grudges."_

_"But not nearly as much,"_ Aragorn interjected, _"As I hate people who are incredibly annoying; like you three." _

Celebdraug poked Aragorn in the side, _"Still in a bad mood?"_

_"I'm currently trying to figure out a way for us to get away from the hundred-some-odd lychens chasing us,"_ Aragorn snapped, _"You three would do well to be a bit more serious in times like this."_

"Bah," Celebdraug responded.

Mordae cocked his head to the side, then turned the upper half of his body, unslinging his bow as he did so. He drew an arrow with dizzying speed and fired it into a lychen as it tore around the corner of the path they had just gone by. The creature let out a yelp and collapsed in the path, becoming a stumbling block for its comrades behind.

Grishnákh rode atop Garulf in the larger group of lychens a league south. He shook his head as another rider-less lychen bolted away from the group, eager to attack the fleeing men and elves. They would be passing his body soon, Grishnákh knew.

"Stay in formation!" Garulf finally roared as they passed yet another felled lychen. "Alone we cannot defeat them!"

There was much growling amongst the soldiers, but all knew better than to defy Garulf, who was known for having the most respect but the strictest discipline rules in the four species that made up the Remnant.

"We will have caught up to them soon," Garulf growled to Grishnákh, "They will be slowed in the preparation to cross Anduin, and there we shall catch them."

Grishnákh licked his black tongue over his teeth in anticipation of the upcoming vengeance.

Aragorn held up a hand as he and his army reached the shores of Anduin.

_"What's your plan, genius-boy?"_ Glorfindel wise-cracked, still mounted atop his horse.

Aragorn leaped from his steed and strode to the edge of the water, where he stopped and craned his neck to look across to the other side.

He looked upstream, then back at Glorfindel, and slowly a smile spread on his face.

_"Onward!"_ the Ranger shouted as he rushed back to his horse where Celebdraug waited.

_"What?"_ Glorfindel questioned in surprise.

_"Ride, Captain!"_

Glorfindel looked over his shoulder at Mordae, who shrugged. With a click of his tongue, Glorfindel urged his horse into the waters, and the cavalry followed him.

Aragorn waited on the side of the path, watching his army thunder past.

_"You do know that the lychens are going to catch us now, right?"_ Celebdraug asked tentatively.

Aragorn nodded slightly, gazing down the path toward the final turn they had rounded.

The barks of the lychens grew louder and as the final soldier entered the river, the wolfmen and their orc riders burst around the corner.

Celebdraug looked around in a slight panic as Aragorn held his ground. She put her hand over his shoulder and released a ball of fire into the lead two lychens, incinerating them, but not slowing their fellows.

At the last possible moment, or so it seemed to Celebdraug, Aragorn turned their horse and drove through the waters of Anduin, the lychens drawing ever closer.

Garulf growled in satisfaction as he watched the man and elf-woman rise from the waters on the other shore. The fastest lychens in his group had long broken free and were already in the water. There was no escape for the infidels now.

Suddenly, as the front of the main group hit the water, Garulf slid to a stop. He could see the man mouthing words, and his mind shot back to stories of great floods called by elven warriors down the Anduin, and how even the Nazgul had been defeated by such waters.

A rumbling sound began to grow in pitch as the lychens neared the man and elf.

"Retreat!" Garulf bellowed, hurling Grishnákh from his back and rising to his hind legs. "Retreat!"

A few of his soldiers obeyed, but most did not. The lead lychen burst from the water, fangs bared, and received the girl's flaming sword through its skull. Before Garulf could see another attack, a gushing torrent of water swept down the river, carrying away over a third of his army.

The flood lasted for nearly a minute, and when the waters finally cleared, they revealed an empty shore on the side where the men and elves had escaped into the forest.

With a dark flash, Garulf switched to his humanoid form and dropped to his knees, bellowing with rage. He held his bearded face in his hands, anger coursing through his veins.

Behind him, Grishnákh picked himself up from the ground and stalked to stand beside Garulf.

"I will enjoy feasting on the infidel's flesh," the orc growled as he put a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "They will know our might before the end."

"Indeed they shall," Garulf snarled in agreement. "Indeed they shall."


	14. Chapter XIII: The Mustering of the Venya...

_**Chapter XIII: The Mustering of the Venyarohirrim**_

The morale of the Dunedain increased dramatically once they were clear of the shores of Anduin and the enemies that had pursued them. Conversations between riders were started up, and everybody seemed far more relaxed. The group rode through the rest of the day and through the night, until at last, the trees became larger and greener, and a light could be seen coming from the center of the forest. Lorien.

Hundreds of leagues away, through the gap of Rohan, in a large village called Meares; the fate of the Venyarohirrim was about to be decided.

As dawn broke over the city, a mass of bedraggled men and women burst from a hidden outcropping in the rocks on a nearby hill. Their approach was slow at first, but as they caught sight of the city, the terrified journeyers broke into a run. A girl with flaming red hair led them, and in her hands the flew the standard of the king. Much excitement filled the city at the sight of the flag, but as the group entered the gates, there was no rejoicing to be found.

No trumpet called out the arrival of the king. No great shouts of victory were heard. Instead, the guards solemnly opened the gates, and group of travelers, many of them injured, all weary and beaten looking, entered in silence. From this closer vantage point, it could be seen that the girl bore the standard upside down; the king had fallen. Grief spread throughout the assembled peoples, and mourning sprang up, drowning the city in sorrow.

Frèalàf, the governor of the city, Meares, which was the largest in all of Isen Meares, walked slowly into the town square, where all the people of the city had amassed and were speaking in hushed tones.

He took a deep breath, then called out to the gathered assembly, "My people! My brothers. This is a dark day for us! Our king was slain in the night by the arrow of a fell creature. The city of New Edoras has fallen! We are broken, leaderless, and without hope!"

A young girl burst from the new arrivals. Her red hair was streaked with dirt, but the fire in her eyes was the same as it had been when she had been battling the Remnant at New Edoras' gates.

"And what would you," Athfaë cried, "O bringer of good news, have us do?"

"And what would you," spat Frèalàf, "A peasant girl, tell the people of a ruined country to do? What would you, a girl of little years, and obviously little intelligence, have us do?"

Athfaë strode angrily to meet Frèalàf in the center of the square. Though she was much smaller than him, the way she carried herself and the way her dark eyes flashed made her seem at least his equal.

"You," she growled, "You would have us curl up and wait for the Fellowship to crush us, wouldn't you?"

She turned to the assembly, "Our battle is not against the Fellowship alone, but it is now against orc and Drow! What say you to that? This is no longer just a civil war, but a fight for survival!"

Frèalàf smirked and tapped the side of his head, indicating that he thought Athfaë was crazy.

"I say we stand firm!" she cried, ignoring him. "Remember Pelinor Fields? Helm's Deep? Our people have battled odds far worse and overcome them before! Can we not do the same now?"

A murmur ran through the masses.

Athfaë continued, "And why should we fear the Drow? We have elves of our own we can turn to!"

Frèalàf laughed bitterly. "The elves have abandoned us and left for Valinor."

"I do not speak of those cowards!" Athfaë replied angrily, "I speak of the Udunaedos! They are not just legend! Who, if not them, liberated the south?"

"The south is overrun by the Fellowship," Frèalàf chided as if speaking to a child.

"But it was first overrun by the Drow, who were utterly defeated and driven away!"

Someone in the crowd who had come from New Edoras called out, "They fell along with our city! Nothing will save us now!"

"But who saw them fall?" another cried. "We abandoned them before they were dead!"

The assembly burst into arguments amongst themselves at this news. The din lasted several minutes, until finally, Athfaë drew her sword, a gleaming, gold handled relic of the Third Age.

"Enough arguing! Choose you now! Do you follow this man," she pointed at Frèalàf with her blade, "To your miserable doom? Or do you follow me to..."

"Glorious death?" Frèalàf interrupted. Again, he laughed bitterly. "This girl is delusional! She speaks as though she lives still in the glory days of old. Her counsel is ill advised and foolhardy."

There was a clang as Athfaë hurled her sword into a barrel beside Frèalàf. She strode ominously close to him and spoke with such intensity that the whole city grew quiet.

"So. We are doomed to repeat history. As Theoden would not ride out to meet Saruman, we will retreat back and wait for our enemies to strangle us."

"We were victorious at Helm's Deep, as you asked us to recall," Frèalàf answered in a bored tone.

"We were victorious because of Erkenbrand's reinforcement attack, not because of the defense! Besides, where would you have us flee? Helm's Deep is destroyed!"

She bent and plucked her sword from the barrel.

Turning to the crowd, she spoke. "I ride for Lorien at mid-day. Whether I ride alone or with an army is your choice."

With that, she walked with her head held high from the square, leaving the people to break out into conversation and talk of war, drowning out Frèalàf's protests.

Elfwine, Athfaë's father, hurried through the streets of Meares toward his home. He was fuming with anger, barely even conscious of the people who continued to try to get his attention. The man cursed his luck that his daughter had inherited her mother's impulsiveness.

He finally reached his door and flung it open with a bang. His daughter knelt in the middle of the entry room, her long red hair fastened in a high ponytail, and her chain mail under her white tunic and pants.

She stood, lifted her saddlebags, and smiled to her father. "You always told me I should follow my heart. My heart says that I must at least try to lead our people to victory."

Elfwine sighed and hugged his daughter closely, "You are so much like your mother. But must you leave so soon? You have just arrived, and I have not seen you for so long."

When she did not answer, he pulled back and held her at arms length. "You have become skilled with the sword, and you have proved yourself an excellent leader. The soldiers will follow you, whether to victory I know not."

Athfaë smiled reassuringly, "I know my limitations. Our soldiers alone cannot assault Belgor, but with our kinsmen to the north and south, and our allies in Lorien, we may be able to attack Minas Tirith."

Elfwine raised his eyebrows. "Minas Tirith? No matter how many soldiers you have, it is madness to attempt to take the White City."

"I have...contacts...on the inside," Athfaë said slowly, with a far-off look in her eye.

Elfwine smiled warmly, "Dacil?"

She nodded.

Dacil had been a childhood friend with whom Athfaë had begun a much more intimate relationship with, until he had been drafted into the Fellowship before Isen Meares had been invaded. In the last letter that Dacil had sent her, he had said that he had been moved to a position of great rank in the Fellowship and would no longer be so free to communicate, but that he would do his best to continue contact. That had been nearly a year ago, and there had been no sign of him.

Elfwine sighed as he looked at his daughter's face. Her features, a unique blend of the rugged Rohirrim and the delicate looking elves, were grim with determination.

"We will stop them, Father," she said with quiet intensity. "The Fellowship _will_ fall."

Elfwine groaned, seeing that there would be no stopping his daughter from leaving. "Then, I will ride with you, if there is no hope of you staying." He prayed to the heavens that she would recant at the thought of risking his life.

"Then you would do best to hurry; we ride soon," she replied with a half smile, guessing his intentions.

With a shake of his head, Elfwine turned and headed back toward his room to prepare for the journey.

As the sun reached the center of the sky, Athfaë and her father rode slowly from their stable, dressed in full battle array. Athfaë held her head high, not daring to look anywhere but straight ahead.

As the pair reached the center of the main street, fully equipped riders began materializing from all sides, growing until their ranks entered into the thousands, and still more came. The procession moved slowly onward until at last, they reached the gate of the city, where Frèalàf waited, mounted on his own horse.

"You fools!" he called out to the riders that were in his line of sight, "Do you really think that so few can assault the gates of Belgor and Mordor?"

Athfaë did not even look at him as she spoke three words, "See, and wonder."

She drew her sword and cried out, her voice ringing throughout the city. "Forth, children of the Rohirrim! Ride swiftly, for time waits for none!"

She reached out with her sword and plucked the king's horn from Frèalàf's saddle where he had placed it after taking it from her. Casting off its black coverings, she raised it to her lips and blew a triumphant call, causing the thousands behind her to let out a mighty shout.

"_Noralim_1," she said to her horse in her mother's tongue. With a snort, he rose onto his hind legs, kicked open the gates of the city, and began galloping into the Riddermark.

As the mighty army issued from the city behind her, Athfaë could not help but turn and blow a kiss to the baffled Frèalàf, causing the soldiers who accompanied her to laugh heartily. She let out a very undignified war whoop, which was echoed by her riders.

As their cry rang in her ears, the girl narrowed her eyes, smiling brightly.

"Bring it on, Eldarion."

1 Ride


	15. Chapter XIV: Blame the Little People

_**Chapter XIV: Home Sweet Home**_

The horde of elven riders crossed the final bridge and rode to the center of the tree city, where they dismounted. Aragorn sighed to himself; in its glory days, the warriors would have received a warm welcome from Lothlorien's inhabitants. Now there were less than 100 elves in the whole city, accompanied by about 2,000 men.

Aragorn heard Celebdraug slide off the back of his horse and ask him if she could leave. Before he could answer, he felt someone take his hand. He turned and looked down, and his eyes met those of his wife, Arwen. Aragorn slid off the horse and took her in his arms, and the two kissed for a long moment.

_"Get a room,"_ Celebdraug muttered, turning away and walking over to Mordae, who was still chatting with Glorfindel.

_"That was a pretty awesome move Aragorn pulled back there, eh?"_ Mordae commented as she approached his cousin.

Celebdraug glanced over her shoulder at Aragorn and Arwen. _"That?"_

Mordae followed her gaze, then smiled and shook his head. _"No, the flood thing."_

_"Oh, that? Seen it."_

_"Done it,"_ Glorfindel boasted with a smile.

The other two elves laughed.

_"I'm starving,"_ Mordae said. _"Let's go get something to eat."_

_"Amen to that,"_ Celebdraug agreed emphatically. _"Glorfindel, care to join us?"_

_"I would love to, but I have my own affairs to tend to,"_ the Silvan elf answered with a small, mischievous grin.

_"Glorfindel's got a girlfriend," _Celebdraug sang to herself as she turned and began heading for the mess hall.

_"Man, how can a puny little punk like you get a girl like Niphredil, but I can't?" _Mordae whined to his friend, following him for a few meters.

_"It could be the fact that you look more like you would kill somebody, rather than date them," _Glorfindel offered.

Mordae grinned and spun one of his daggers absent-mindedly in his hand,_ "The walking armory not exactly a turn-on for her?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"How 'bout these?"_ Mordae said, flexing his gargantuan muscles.

_"Again, I don't muscles larger than the girls' heads is a good thing."_

The giant's shoulders sagged in mock depression. _"I can't help it. I'm just too hot."_

_"Mordae, my friend,"_ Glorfindel consoled with a laugh, putting his arm over the taller elf's shoulders, _"You'll find your match. In the meantime,"_ the Silvan turned and began to walk away, _"I've got mine to tend to. Namarie__1__."_

_"Namarie," _Mordae muttered, and with a shake of his head, he followed his cousin.

Celebdraug smiled as Mordae approached. She poked him in the chest, _"Ha-ha. Nobody likes you."_

Mordae poked Celebdraug on her forehead, _"Let's go eat."_

_"Yummy food."_

Just before the two reached the dining hall, a wise looking old man dressed in all white, including his hair, burst through the doors.

_"Gandalf!"_ the elves cried joyously.

The old wizard smiled as a father smiles at his children as he hugged Celebdraug, who arrived first. Mordae grabbed them both in his arms and lifted them up.

Gandalf laughed, "My children! It is good to see you alive and well!"

_"No thanks to that last mission. That's the last time I spend 20 years in a foreign region trying to save a bunch of ungrateful people,"_ Celebdraug groaned with a smile as Mordae released them.

_"Not as fun as you had thought it would be?"_ Gandalf inquired knowingly.

_"No. Not nearly as fun,"_ Mordae answered.

_"And the Drow? What of them?"_ Gandalf asked.

The two elves looked at one another and raised their eyebrows.

_"Care to come and eat in our house so we can discuss?"_ Celebdraug offered to Gandalf.

_"That well, eh?"_ the wizard responded with a shake of his head.

_"I'm getting food first,"_ Mordae insisted.

Gandalf chuckled and tapped the ground with the white staff he carried.

With a crack, a cart covered with all varieties of elven foods appeared beside them.

Celebdraug turned in awe to the cart, then back to Gandalf.

_"Teach me that one."_

The elves and Gandalf made their way through the passageways amongst the trees in Lothlorien for quite some time until they came to a colossal green and gold toned mansion built in and around the trees. Gandalf, who was in the lead, reached for the door handle and felt it unlock at his touch. He smiled and opened the massive door, stepping into the dark entryway.

Behind him, Celebdraug placed her hand on the wall, causing flames to leap up on candles and torches all around the mansion.

_"Home, sweet home,"_ she said to nobody in particular as she entered, sliding past Gandalf and walking through an archway leading to a closet, where she dropped her backpack and weapons.

Gandalf smiled and then stood, taking in the beauty of the tapestries hanging in the entryway.

He was always amazed at the size of Mordae and Celebdraug's home and the artifacts it held. They had amassed quite a lot of wealth over the years, and what they could not buy, they took as 'spoils of war' whenever they conquered fortresses or cities.

He followed the two Noldor as they walked happily through their mansion, looking over the home they had not seen for twenty years as they fought the Drow in the south.

The three walked through a room filled with swords and other weapons of hundreds of kings and heroes, all with little golden plaques telling of who owned them and how the weapons were recovered.

Gandalf stopped and stood in amazement at the sight of two huge maces hung side by side. He read the plaques, _"Grond-Hammer of the Underworld"_, and, _"The Mace of Sauron-The Weapon that Felled Earendil."_

The wizard laughed amusedly, _"How in Ea did you get these?"_

_"We're special,"_ Mordae said with a mischievous grin.

_"I picked them up at a thrift store the other century. Quite a steal, really,"_ Celebdraug added with a grin.

_"Literally, I would assume,"_ Gandalf responded with a twinkle in his eye.

_"Hey,"_ Mordae said defensively, _"Nobody claimed them. Nobody could lift them, for crying out loud."_

Gandalf shook his head and followed the elves to a room filled with the crowns of rulers from the past that had been defeated. An enormous black crown topped off this collection, with an inscription in the original black tongue.

_"Morgoth's crown?"_ Gandalf said in shock.

_"It was a two for one buy,"_ Celebdraug said, grabbing Gandalf's arm and leading him from the room.

The tour ended with the entrance into a room with walls and a roof of pure, transparent crystal that blurred the stars above into a collage of light.

_"You know,"_ Gandalf said as he entered, _"For two rogue warriors, your house rivals a combination of the greatest palaces and museums in history."_

_"Like I said,"_ Mordae replied as he sank into an exotic looking elven chair and held out a hand to an adjacent one for Gandalf to sit in, _"We're special."_

The wizard sat with a nod, and Celebdraug drew a chair up to form a triangle for them to sit at, the food cart in the middle.

_"Foooood..."_ she murmured as she grabbed a plate, piled it with elven delicacies, and began eating. Mordae quickly followed her example.

While the elves ate hungrily, Gandalf shared gossip of the various empires and peoples of Middle Earth that had occurred while the elves were on mission. He did not mention anything important or any information about the wars, wanting to save those talks until he had the elves' undivided attention.

The three talked and laughed until the sun had sunken behind the trees.

When at last the two elves laid their dishes aside, Gandalf spoke a word of command, and the cart and plates vanished with a small flash.

_"Make yourselves comfortable,"_ Gandalf said, _"This could take a while."_

1 Farewell


	16. Chapter XV: Happy Warmongering

_**Chapter XV: Happy War-mongering**_

_"So how did things go in the south?"_ the wizard asked.

Mordae and Celebdraug looked to one another. The older of the two gestured to the younger, who rolled her eyes.

"Not well," she said. "We took back a lot of land from the Drow that they had taken, but as soon as we would leave, either they or the Fellowship would occupy it again. We tried our best to get to Mornië, but their capitol is _so_ far south...There is no way we could have made it."

Gandalf sighed, "I feared that."

"Though," Mordae added, "We ran into a massive army of Drow, orcs, wolf-thingys, and freaky-flying-fanged-guys with knives and lisps."

"Lychens and vampires," Gandalf corrected.

"Who-whats and _vampires_?" Celebdraug exclaimed, sitting up straighter.

"Lychens. Werewolves from the north," the wizard explained, "And yes, vampires."

"I thought we killed all those things!" Mordae said in exasperation.

_"As did we_," Gandalf said. _"I have very bad news. While you were gone, as you might have gathered, the alliance of the men broke. Eldarion is now in charge of Gondor, which he has named Belgor, and a man named Lèofa is in charge of Rohan, which is now Isen Meares_

_"Actually,"_ Mordae interrupted sheepishly, _"Lèofa is currently in charge of absolutely nothing. A Drow assassin killed him. We were there."_

Gandalf raised his eyebrows, _"Ill news indeed. It fits perfectly with mine. Lorien is the only stronghold of good left on Middle Earth."_

_"What?"_ the elves cried in unison.

_"The north and west have fallen to the vampires. The northeast has fallen to the vampires. The southeast, orcs; and the south, Drow."_

_"But...but...how?"_ the elves sputtered in amazement.

_"Maneva Mornië has made himself an army he calls the Remnant; a coalition of the Drow, orc, vampire, and lychen races. Their goal so far seems simple, world domination."_

_"That's a new one,"_ Mordae spat bitterly.

_"He seems to be doing a pretty good job,"_ Celebdraug added.

"_Indeed. I wish you could have slain that Mornaur'tury__1__," _Gandalf muttered.

_"Wait. He's a fire mage?_" Celebdraug asked.

Gandalf nodded.

_"Tall? Dark skin? Evil laugh?"_ she continued.

Again, Gandalf nodded.

_"Damn it!"_ Celebdraug shrieked.

The wizard raised an eyebrow.

_"We ran into him in New Edoras,"_ Mordae explained. _"I told her I recognized him, but she didn't believe me. He got away."_

Celebdraug stuck her tongue out at her cousin, who responded to the immature action by sticking his own out.

Gandalf held his head in his hands.

_"Sorry,"_ the elves said together.

_"It is just as well,"_ Gandalf sighed_. "I have been studying ancient manuscripts. I fear even you may not have the strength to fell him."_

_"Listen to me,"_ Mordae hissed, _"If a filthy hobbit can kill Sauron, we can kill a dirty lantioer__2__."_

_"Speaking of the hobbits,"_ Celebdraug piped up, _"You say the west has fallen? Does that mean..."_

Gandalf nodded sadly.

Mordae and Celebdraug cheered. _"No more stinking hobbits, no more stinking hobbits!"_

_"**SILENCE**!"_ Gandalf thundered.

The elves ceased their chanting immediately.

Gandalf took a deep breath to gather himself, then, continued. _"When Sauron forged the One Ring, he also made an object the Drow call the Night Crystal. This crystal has the power, if wielded properly, to draw the power from the various rings, bestowing a power rivaling that of the One Ring upon its owner. I suspect that Mornië would give everything to acquire this item."_

_"Not good," _Celebdraug murmured quietly.

_"Not good at all,"_ Gandalf agreed.

_"Do you know where it is?"_ Mordae asked the wizard intently.

_"I have not a clue, unfortunately,"_ Gandalf replied, _"But I do know one other piece of information. To forge the final ring, Mornië must first obtain all of the others."_

His glance fell to the elves' hands, on which rested two of the three elven-rings.

_"Cirdan's ring, if I am correct, lies still upon Eldarion's finger.,"_ Gandalf said. _"Now, Mornië could possibly forge a ring without your two, but I believe he will wait until he has obtained them as well before continuing."_

_"He's going to wait a long time, then," _Celebdraug growled.

_"Do not underestimate his powers," _the wizard warned. _" Mornië has already collected the nine rings of the men, and five of the dwarf rings as well as the one from Cirdan. The final two dwarf rings lie in Moria, which is long abandoned, and Kazad-ûm, which is the final stronghold of the dwarves."_

_"Which is where we come in?"_ Mordae questioned, though it sounded more like a statement than an inquiry.

_"Exactly,"_ the wizard replied.

_"So we're supposed to walk in and ask politely for the rings. Prepare the dwarves to defend themselves?"_ Celebdraug asked incredulously.

_"Hardly,"_ Gandalf replied, _"And you know that. I need you, nay, Middle Earth needs you to get those rings at all costs."_

_"Deadly force authorized?"_ Mordae's voice contained a hopeful tone.

_"As if you need authorization,"_ Gandalf answered with a slight smile.

Celebdraug smiled nostalgically, _"I can't remember the last time I whacked off one of those midgets' heads."_

_"First of all,"_ Gandalf interrupted hastily, _"Yes you can; you're an elf, if you've forgotten, which you can't. Second of all, I am not authorizing you to commit genocide. Yes, you can remove any who stand in your way, but no unnecessary killings will take place. Understood?"_

The elves sighed._ "Yes, sir,"_ they answered resignedly.

_"Good. I want you to leave tomorrow,"_ Gandalf said.

_"Oh, but of course,"_ Celebdraug growled sarcastically. _"Can't have us at home for longer than a day. Too much trouble, aren't we?"_

Gandalf smiled, _"You can ski the Misty Mountains to get to Moria."_

Both Celebdraug and Mordae brightened at this prospect.

_"Alright, then,"_ Mordae cried cheerily. _"We leave first thing in the morning. Nidanostre__3__, Gandalf."_ The elf patted the wizard on the shoulder as he hurried from the room.

_"We should sleep, Celebdraug! Big day tomorrow!"_ he called over his shoulder.

Celebdraug nodded and leaped up, "_Nidanostre,_ _Gandy!"_

She hugged the old wizard, and then hurried down the hall to her bedroom.

Gandalf stood alone in the crystal room, gazing up at the stars.

_"What exactly did I do to deserve these two, Illúvatar?"_

Celebdraug's door burst open, _"I heard that!"_

Gandalf smiled as she slammed her door shut.

_'Elves,'_ he thought to himself.

1 Dark-fire wielder

2 Fallen one, Light Elf name for Dark Elves

3 Goodnight.


	17. Chapter XVI: Questions and Answers

Chapter XVI: Questions and Answers 

As morning broke over the city of Osgiliath, a caravan of traders from the nearby fortress of Minas Tirith made its way through the city gates. In the dim light, none noticed a small, cloaked figure rising from the side of the road to join the rear of the group.

Dacil Rom, second in command of the Fellowship army, rose with the sun, as he always did. He rose from his bed and changed quickly into his mail and tunic. Attaching his long broadsword to his belt, Dacil shook his medium length brown hair back behind his ears. He opened the door leading to the streets and smiled at the sight of the rising sun.

Dacil's mind raced as he entered the city square and began to make his way to the main barracks. Several times in the past week, the city of Minas Tirith had fallen under attack by orcs from Mordor. The recent uprisings had been much fiercer than earlier attacks, and this was quite unsettling to Dacil.

Suddenly, his thoughts were shattered with a crash of metal as he collided hard with a cloaked woman. The sudden shock of the blow, combined with the force the woman hit him with, caused Dacil to fall to the cobblestone ground with a grunt alongside her.

"I am so sorry, my lord!" the woman cried, scrambling to her feet and reaching out a hand to assist him up.

"No need to apologize, my lady, the fault was..." he stopped short as he felt a piece of parchment pressed into his hand from hers.

She squeezed his hand hard, prompting him to continue, for many people had stopped to watch the spectacle.

Dacil cleared his throat, "Was mine."

"You are most gracious, sir," the woman murmured, and with a final pull, she brought him to his feet. "I take my leave." With that, the lady turned and melted back into the crowd, her hand lingering on his for a moment longer, it seemed.

Dacil watched her go until he could no longer see her, then, palming the folded parchment, he hurried on to the barracks.

After pausing to salute the guards in front of the barracks, Dacil took a moment to gather himself. He knew he had to pretend as though nothing had happened. Were the woman who he thought she was, it would be _very_ unwise to tip his hand to the Commander in Chief of the Fellowship.

The guards opened the door to the room, revealing the Commander, Aragost. The formidable man sat in his throne-like chair, feet propped up on his desk, a black cloak draped around him. The General absentmindedly spun a dagger in his hand, and he stared off out the window at the black mountains of Mordor.

Dacil saluted with a grim smile. Aragost looked up at him and half returned the salute, "How are you this fine morning, General?"

Dacil shrugged, "I've been better, sir."

"Worried about Mordor?"

"Yes, sir," Dacil ceded with a small nod. "Though I think that things could be much worse."

Aragost raised his eyebrows and removed his feet from his desk. He reached down and pulled a large map from the ground beside the desk, placing it before himself.

"Sit, Dacil," the Commander ordered with a small gesture toward another chair opposite him.

Dacil obliged him.

"What have you to say on this matter, General?" Aragost asked him.

I feel that things could be worse because, luckily for us, the orcs are not acting alone."

Aragost exhaled slowly, "And this makes you feel safe?"

"Orcs are mindless," Dacil replied. "They would throw their full weight against us and shatter our forces if there was nobody to control them. But, because they are following orders, they will wait. The Drow will want to gather their strength. They will attack the Venyarohirrim first, thus buying us time to prepare. We will not get away without heavy losses, but we will have a lot of time to prepare."

Aragost smiled, "It is no wonder that you have risen through the ranks as you have."

"Thank you, sir."

"So what do you propose we do, Dacil my friend?"

"Strike at the head," Dacil responded with a glimmer in his eye. "An offensive at the Drow would throw the Remnant into disarray."

"_And_, anger them," Aragost added, "Causing them to change their plans and assault us first."

The Captain let out a long breath as he considered this. "And that, sir, is why you are in charge," Dacil acknowledged finally with a small laugh.

Aragost chuckled, "I say we wait for the Venyarohirrim or, better yet, the Dunedain, to take them on first. This will draw attention away from us, and allow us to destroy both the Venyarohirrim, the Drow, and the Dunedain all in one sweep."

Dacil nodded slowly, "That sounds good to me, sir."

"Thank you. I will need you to probe the Drow defensive line, as well as the Venyarohirrim's. Will that be okay with you?"

Dacil set his jaw, stood, and saluted. "I serve the Fellowship, sir."

With that, he rose, spun on his heel, and marched from the room, fuming to himself.

Dacil stalked down the streets of Osgiliath back toward his quarters.He flung his door open, hurled his sword in the corner, then stormed into his house, slamming the door behind him.

"_Damn!" _Dacil swore as he threw himself onto his bed.

He balled his fists and closed his eyes. When he had been drafted into the Fellowship eight years ago, he had made them promise not to make him fight his own people, the Venyarohirrim, if it came to war. The Commander had agreed, but had apparently disregarded his promise.

And then, as if that was not enough, that girl had to show up. Dacil's mind reeled. Could it really be her, after all this time? But what did she want?

Dacil opened his eyes suddenly as a new thought entered his mind. Was it a test by Aragost? Surely he would not dare...

Abruptly, Dacil realized that he had not yet even looked at the note the woman had given him. Reaching into a pocket in his tunic, Dacil pulled out the parchment. Holding it up to the light from the window with trembling hands, he read the five words that were scrawled on it, obviously by somebody writing with their subdominant hand.

'_5 leagues west. Mid-day. Alone.'_

The confused Fellowship General sat up and looked out his window; the sun had nearly reached the center of the sky. He sat, pondering for a moment, then plunged the parchment back into his pocket. Rising, Dacil returned his sword to his side, set his jaw, and strode out of his barracks, a man on a mission.


	18. Chapter XVII: Vacation or Genocide?

_**Chapter XVII: Vacation or Genocide?**_

That very morning, hundreds of leagues to the north, the happy chatter of Mordae and Celebdraug awakened Gandalf as they prepared to leave. They spoke in Quenya, a language so ancient that very few understood, and none spoke as fluently as the two.

Gandalf rose from his bed in the elves' mansion, placed his white robe over his sleeping clothes, and made his way to the dining room, where the two elves sat at the table, eating mounds of food and talking excitedly.

"Good morning!" they chimed together in Numenorian upon seeing the wizard.

"My," Gandalf commented with a smile, "Aren't we happy this morning?"

"We gets to go on vacation!" Celebdraug exclaimed brightly.

"Vacation? You're going on a mission that could either save or doom Middle Earth!" the wizard cried incredulously.

"It's us, our swords, and unlimited enemies. No politics, no armies to command. The only rule is, 'no dying.' It's a vacation," Mordae answered with a wry smile.

Gandalf shook his head resignedly, "You have problems."

"Thank you," Celebdraug said as she rose to carry her dishes to the massive kitchen. "Hurry up, Mordae!"

With a sigh, Mordae complied, apologizing to Gandalf as he passed. "I'm sorry we have to eat and run. We want to be out of here as soon as possible so we can get to Moria by tomorrow morning."

"Understandable," Gandalf acknowledged with a small nod.

The elves dashed back to their rooms and returned a few minutes later in full battle array. They wore identical outfits; reversible dark-green or white tunics, pants, capes, boots, gloves, and face masks that covered every last inch of their skin.

The two also toted hefty backpacks, along with a broadsword, bow, quiver, and a myriad of assorted knives. Two long skis with bladed poles completed the ensemble, and coupled with their colossal size, it left no question to why they were so feared.

Gandalf smiled as he looked up into the elves' faces. "Don't you two look awfully friendly?"

The elves laughed, a muffled, yet still melodious sound.

"Wish us luck?" Celebdraug inquired softly.

"But of course," Gandalf replied. "You two will be back here within the next few weeks, I'm sure."

Mordae nodded slightly and swallowed, "A little scary, not having ever fought vampires. Other than the ones we slaughtered in Isen Meares, of course."

Celebdraug's eyes brightened at the reminder of their victory.

_"_I for one am anxious to see what we can do against them. Come, Mordae. _Luuma'a ondol__1__,"_ she growled.

_"Tyala luuma__2__,"_ Mordae agreed, his apprehension lessened by his cousin's enthusiasm. _"Namarie_, _Gandalf."_

_"Namarie,"_ the wizard responded, embracing Mordae and Celebdraug as best he could.

The two returned the gesture, saluted, and then they were off, running swiftly west toward the distant mountains.

Dacil stormed down the barrack's halls, stopping at the door to the room of his captain, Eorlmer. He reached up a gloved hand and pounded on the entrance, "Eorlmer! Get suited up! We ride in ten minutes!"

The wooden door creaked open, revealing his red haired, slightly bearded captain's face. "What? Joyriding in the middle of the day?" Eorlmer asked with a boyish grin.

"Act your age," Dacil growled.

"Eighteen? And why are you so happy?"

"I apologize," Dacil muttered, banging his head slightly on the doorframe. "My mind is a bit preoccupied. Just gear up; I'm going to go get the others."

Eorlmer raised one of his eyebrows, but saluted and retreated back into his barrack room.

Dacil made his way down the hall, calling out the eight other riders in his elite officers' èored3. The group had assembled in a few minutes, though none but Dacil knew why. The riders were far too well trained to question, however, and the group was soon riding west, towards Ithilien forest.

Dacil rode a few hundred meters in front, leading his men through Pelinor fields and into the forest. They rode in silence and without any event until Dacil came to a small clearing exactly where the note had told him the meeting point would be.

In the center of the clearing, leaning against a fallen log, sat a small, cloaked woman, bow in hand. Slowing to a halt, the Fellowship General raised his hand up, signaling his men to stop. He drew his short sword from the side of his saddle, then rode slowly into the open.

As he approached, the girl leaped up from the ground and aimed her bow, obviously not of elven quality, straight at Dacil's chest.

"Who are you?" she hissed, blowing a lock of her dark red hair from her eyes.

Dacil held up his hands, replacing his sword in its sheath, "Athfaë?"

"No," the woman said with a wry smile, "That's my name."

Dacil swung from his mount and landed softly on the ground, causing Athfaë to tense and draw the bow back tighter.

"Don't you recognize me?" he asked in shock.

"One cannot be too cautious. Prove it," the young woman growled.

Dacil crossed the distance between the two in the blink of an eye, lowered her bow, and kissed her.

He released her a moment later, holding her at arms length.

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Athfaë smiled roguishly, "You seem confident that I am truly Athfaë."

Dacil shrugged in acknowledgement.

"Let's make sure," she responded, pulling him down and kissing him in return.

Eorlmer rolled his eyes and slowly crawled back to the others from his reconnaissance position on the forest.

"I think Dacil found who he was looking for," he said with an impish grin.

"Does he know the person?" one of the lieutenants questioned.

Eorlmer chuckled and winked, "I surely hope so."

The others groaned, mounted up, and rode back toward Osgiliath, discussing their General's various problems.

Athfaë broke away from Dacil and looked up in alarm at the sound of the hoof beats.

"It is alright," Dacil said, touching her arm in a reassuring gesture, "'tis only my men."

"I said alone," Athfaë hissed.

"I could not let myself believe that it was truly you. I wanted to be prepared for the worst." He sighed, "It has been too long."

"Yes. Far too long," Athfaë agreed, stepping closer to Dacil. "Come," she said, taking his hand, "We have urgent matters to discuss."

A few hundred leagues east, in the black sea of Remnant tents clustered in the center of the Riddermark, the serene silence of the plains a few hundred yards away from the camp where Turdú sat was shattered by the cheerful voice of Dilotè as she approached him.

"_Turdú!"_ the young Halda'ohtar warrior called as she strode toward him, swinging one of her samurai swords absentmindedly in her hand.

Turdú didn't turn from his gazing over the prairie as he responded, "Captain, we are still on Remnant grounds here."

Dilotè giggled, _"Oh, come on. Nobody can hear us."_

The Remnant General shrugged, surrendering to her observation. _"I just don't want to get court-martialed or something."_

"_Wuss,"_ Dilotè quipped as she hopped over one of the large boulders that scattered the plains and sat beside Turdú.

"_That's General Wuss to you," _he said, turning slightly in her direction.

"_So it does have a sense of humor,"_ Dilotè mused, tossing her blade back and forth between her hands.

Turdú looked back to the Riddermark, seemingly lost in his thoughts again. Dilotè exhaled slowly and tossed her sword higher into the air.

Before she could catch it on the descent, however, Turdú's hand shot out and plucked it from the air above her. _"Mine,"_ he stated, holding it high above her head, his 20-centimeter height advantage making his statement into a fact.

Dilotè made an exasperated noise, a high pitched, stuttering squeak.

Turdú raised an eyebrow, _"Right."_

Dilotè mock-glared at him, then without warning, launched herself straight up with her hands and retook her sword, executing a front flip on the way down.

"_Impressive. But can you dance?"_ Turdú asked.

His captain's eyes widened in confusion,_ "Dance?_ _Well, I suppose..."_

Turdú laughed, _"Only kidding, Captain."_

She punched him lightly in the shoulder. _"Call me Dilotè, if you don't mind, sir."_

"_Only if you don't call me sir anymore, ma'am."_

Dilotè smiled flirtatiously at him, then plopped her head onto his large shoulder.

Turdú sat still for a moment, quite unsure of how to respond. Luckily for him, however, Dilotè sat upright a moment later, her dark-purple eyes squinting off into the distance.

"_What's that?" _she whispered.

Turdú shook his head slightly to clear the moderate panic that had moments before plagued him and looked out over the Riddermark, attempting to follow her gaze.

Far off, upwards of forty leagues away, a mass of black and gray seemed to ripple back and forth slowly as it wound its way over the hills of the plains.

"_I haven't a clue. We don't have any units west of here, do we?" _Turdú muttered.

"_Not that I know of."_

Turdú grinned almost evilly, _"Well, we're about to."_

He quickly rose to his feet. _"Get that sword back out, Dilotè. We're going to go make some friends."_

1 Time to rock

2 Party time

3 A cavalry unit


	19. Chapter XVIII: Doubly Double Crossing

Chapter XIIX: Doubly Double Crossing 

Back in Ithilien, Athfaë and Dacil sat hand-in-hand together in the shade of one of the large, pine-like trees. They talked of life, of what the two had done, and of future plans.

When Dacil asked Athfaë what she thought was in her future, she grew suddenly silent, and her eyes began to glisten.

"I fear we are on opposite sides of this war," she choked.

"Why do you say that?"

"I have not been completely honest with you. I am not just an officer in the Venyarohirrim army."

"Yes?" Dacil asked, his usual calm self.

"Well, I am," Athfaë said quickly, somewhat unnerved by Dacil's ease of dealing with a situation he knew nothing of, "But I'm a rather high ranking officer."

"As am I in the Fellowship," Dacil stated matter-of-factly.

"I am the Commander in Chief of the army, Dacil!" Athfaë cried, then burst into tears, burying her face in his chest.

"Athfaë, Athfaë," Dacil said soothingly, stroking her hair, "What is so wrong about this?"

"What is wrong?!" she practically screamed, sitting up with a start. "Everything is wrong! You are _glad_ that we are enemies?"

Dacil merely smiled, "Enemies? Athfaë, I would die before I betrayed you."

"And die you would if you refused to fight! It would be treason!"

"Then fight I shall. But not for them," Dacil said with a bit more emotion in his voice than he usually portrayed.

"What?"

"My men and I stand ready at your command, Athfaë."

Athfaë shook her head slowly, "What on Ea are you talking about? You would give up your rank and possibly life just to fight in my army?"

"I do not care about power! I am loyal to Isen Meares, let alone you, not Belgor. I stayed with the Fellowship because our people were fallen, too blind to fight the Remnant. But now that they have a capable, not to mention beautiful, leader..."

Athfaë squealed with joy, "You would do that?"

"For you? Of course."

She kissed him again.

Aragorn, High King of the men and General of the Dunedain, raced with much indignity down a smooth wooden passageway leading to the forest floor of Lorien.

"Where are they going?" he cried to Gandalf, who stood watching Mordae and Celebdraug disappear into the darkness of the woodland.

"On 'vacation', " he said with a smile, "You'll never catch them now. Don't even try."

"You did this on purpose!" Aragorn raged, "You intentionally made it so I couldn't go with them!"

"Have me executed," wizard said with a shrug, and whistling under his breath, he walked back up the ramp, leaving a fuming king below.

"I should," Aragorn growled as he stalked after his mentor, "In a most terrible and painful way."

At dusk, Elfwine stepped into the clearing where he had left his daughter earlier that day. He stroked the fletching on his arrow absentmindedly as he scanned the perimeter for enemies.

"Athfaë?" he hissed.

A rustling in the brush behind him caused him to whirl and draw back his bow, ready to fight.

"Father?" Athfaë's voice called.

Elfwine lowered his bow at the sound of his daughter. He hurried toward where the voice had come from, and finally found her and Dacil standing together, arms around one another.

"I see you two found one another," Elfwine said with a smile. He looked to Athfaë, "May I?"

Athfaë stepped back as her father embraced Dacil.

"It has been a long time, Dacil. How go things with you?"

"Well. Yourself?"

"These are troublesome times, and my daughter has a mind of her own, which is quite bungled, from what I can tell. All things considered, I am doing well," the older man responded.

"Speaking of your daughter's bungled mind," Dacil said, putting his arm around Athfaë's shoulder, "I believe that we have it all worked out."

"It?"

Dacil grinned, "I am going to be a double-double agent of sorts."

"Ah. I see," Elfwine said with a slight nod, "What?"

The two children laughed mirthfully.

"I will go back to Aragost and tell him that I have contacted Athfaë," Dacil explained, "I will tell him that I want to act as a double agent, pretending to be Athfaë's friend. When in actuality..."

"You will be only pretending to be pretending to be her friend," Elfwine said with a nod.

"When you put it that way, it sounds really complicated," Athfaë whined.

"I will give Aragost the nonsense he deserves, while delivering correct information about Fellowship movements, as they will be assuming I still work for them."

"Genius," Elfwine murmured with a small shake of his head.  
"It was a bit of collaboration on our parts, but I'll take the credit," Dacil replied.

Athfaë gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, then rested her head where she had just struck.

Elfwine smiled at the two, then turned his gaze up to the star-filled sky.

"We would best get going," he said, "The sun will set soon, and I for one do not want to be caught in the middle of Ithilien forest with orcs swarming all throughout it."

"Excuse me?" Dacil asked incredulously, "The Fellowship does an excellent job of curtailing orc expeditions."

"Bah," spat Elfwine, "I assume you are in charge of these 'curtailing' operations?"

"But of course," Dacil answered. He leaned down and kissed Athfaë one last time, saluted Elfwine, and with a swirl of his cloak, he headed toward his steed.

Athfaë stood watching him ride off, staring into the trees even after he was out of sight.

She suddenly felt her father's arm around her, holding her tightly.

"You really love him," Elfwine more stated than asked.

Athfaë nodded, looking up into her father's face.

Elfwine shrugged, "At least he didn't kiss me."


	20. Chapter XIX: Deadly Skiing

Chapter XIX: Blades in the Night 

In the great white city of Minas Tirith, Eldarion, Son of Aragorn and King of Belgor, hurried to his throne in the royal chambers.

Upon reaching his destination, the King glanced apprehensively over his shoulder, scanning for any watchers. Seeing no one, he pushed the throne aside, revealing a trapdoor concealed beneath the intricate rug.

Reaching down hurriedly, Eldarion jerked a hidden lever upward, causing the trapdoor to swing ominously inward, opening into a dark chasm lit only by a few meager torches.

Eldarion lowered himself into the dimly lit room, flicking another switch to close the trapdoor. He made his way to the center of the small room, where he sat in a large chair before a golden pedestal, on which sat a glowing orb.

Reaching out his right hand, on which sat the third elven ring of power, he placed it upon the orb, and closing his eyes, spoke in a low voice.

"Come, Isildur, father of my people," he murmured, calling forth the spirit of an ancient Numenorian hero with whom he had communed with on many an occasion before. In fact, it had been Isildur who convinced Eldarion to overthrow his father as king.

A green mist began to swirl inside the orb, and as the sea of emerald whirled about, he heard a voice, detached and echoing, inside his head. "I am here."

"My lord, the Venyarohirrim move about as if preparing for war. What shall I do to bring glory to our blessed country?"

"Send an army to New Edoras," the spirit replied, "Crush them at their head."

"New Edoras?" Eldarion asked in surprise, "Are we strong enough, lord?"

"With my assistance, you shall be."

Eldarion nodded, eyes still closed. "Of course," he responded as he began to rise from his seat to set the troops in motion, "It shall be done."

South of Belgor, in the tower of Baradu, the fortress of the Drow, Maneva Mornië cackled to himself as he turned away from his own swirling sapphire orb.

He turned to face his three generals, Turdú was on mission in Isen Meares, and chuckled, "Impressionable humans. They will believe anything a 'spirit' tells them."

The other three Remnant laughed as well.

"What are they doing now, sir?" Garulf asked, blinking his solid black eyes.

"Sssending zeir army to attack ze hobbitsssess?" Vrayon asked, tapping his glittering black claws on the nearby window-ledge.

Even Garulf laughed at this mental picture.

"No," Mornië answered after the laughter ceased, "Even better. They go to strike a _grievous_blow to the Venyarohirrim; at New Edoras."

"Where our troops will crush them," Grishnákh said as if stumbling upon the revelation of the Fourth Age.

"Congratulationsss," Vrayon scoffed with a mocking smile, "You vin anozer sticker for your shiny black armor."

Grishnákh growled, but Garulf's hand restrained the orc from unleashing his anger on the smaller vampire.

"Vhat of ze elvesss?" Vrayon asked, ignoring Grishnákh's outrage at the insult.

"Which ones?" Mornië asked ignorantly.

"You know of vhich I ssspeak."

The Supreme Commander of the Remnant sighed, "I know not where the Udunaedos are, but I shall find them, do not worry. I shall find them, and then," he grinned viciously, "They shall die."

In the darkness at the base of the Misty Mountains, a troop of a half dozen orcs scoured for food in the moonlight, searching for small animals to feed them and their kin. Little did they suspect that the hunters were now the prey.

There was a sudden explosion of white powder as two enormous figures clothed in all white burst upward from where they were buried, swords whirling. The orcs shrieked and aimed their bows, but were all struck down quickly and efficiently before they could fire.

The largest attacker bent over one of the orcs and rolled the headless body over onto its back.

_"Moria filth,"_ the attacker, Mordae, spat contemptuously.

The other figure, Celebdraug, smiled imperceptibly under her facemask._ "Good."_

Mordae sheathed his glowing sword and gazed up into the night sky, _"We should get to the mountain peak before we pitch camp; we'll be able to see if more of these losers want to play soldier with us."_

Celebdraug nodded, _"It'll make a good sniper position, too."_

Her cousin nodded, _"Indeed. Let's bury the bodies."_

_"Shouldn't we give them a proper burial?" _Celebdraug asked.

Mordae shrugged nonchalantly.

Celebdraug kicked the nearest body unceremoniously and spat on it. _"There. Let's do this."_

A few moments later, the two elves scrambled swiftly and invisibly up the now banks, leaving no trace save scuffed snow that covered the bodies of the newest victims of the Udunaedos.

Mordae and Celebdraug climbed quickly, floating atop the deep snow as if it were solid ground, climbing cliffs with the aid of their daggers, all the while keeping hidden from prying orc eyes.

They reached the peak within an hour, where they unfurled their sleeping packs.

_"Damn, it's cold up here,"_ Mordae hissed.

_"Quit your whining, hobbit-breath."_

_"Thanks for the sympathy," _he muttered, tightening his blanket around his shoulders.

_"Glad to be of service."_ There was silence for a moment. _"How far is Moria?"_ Celebdraug inquired.

_"The gate?" _Mordae responded, _"Couple hundred leagues. The tunnels probably go for leagues around, but the gate is the only entrance I know."_

_"Then we'll get some skiing in?"_ Celebdraug asked brightly.

_"I think we might have to force ourselves to,"_ Mordae answered with a smile.

_"Darn,"_ Celebdraug complained sarcastically. _"Nidanostre."_

_"Nidanostre."_

In the northernmost section of Ithilien forest, Dúnhere, a lieutenant of the Venyarohirrim entrusted with commanding those guarding the south flank of the resting army, rested up against a tree, glancing about lazily. He did not expect anything terribly interesting to happen; the nearest Fellowship encampment was over a hundred leagues away, and the huge Venyarohirrim army that he defended was far more than a match for any attackers.

"Hey, Hama!" Dúnhere called out to the man he had placed in the closest proximity to himself.

There was no response.

"Hama?"

Now a slight rustling sound emanated from the bushes in the general direction of where Dúnhere had left Hama. Dúnhere reached slowly for his sword as he took a tentative step toward the sound, his eyes sweeping back and forth.

"Hama, no games here. Report, now!"

There was an explosion of leaves and twigs as a dark form launched itself from behind Dúnhere, who spun as quickly as he could to face the new threat.

_"Report this, infidel,"_ a woman's voice hissed in a tongue Dúnhere had read only in ancient documents back in his village's museum as the form smashed its forearm across his head, hurling him to the ground.

A long, thin, black blade swung artfully up to Dúnhere's neck, resting its tip against his Adam's apple.

The Venyarohirrim lieutenant held up his hands, dropping his sword to the ground beside him in a gesture of surrender.

_"The Halda'ohtar take no prisoners."_

Dúnhere swallowed at the coldness in his captor's voice.

"Could you make an exception?" he croaked in a weak attempt at humor.

The woman laughed, a sound that was strangely melodious for her harsh actions. _"I think not."_

The samurai sword swept upward in a massive arc, promising death with the downswing, its dark blade shimmering in the moonlight like water.

Before the Drow could strike, there was another explosion of leaves as an arrow ripped through the branches. Dilotè, the assassin, spun to avoid her demise and caught the bolt in the shoulder, causing her to lose her weapon.

She swore in elvish as she glared into the darkness from whence the arrow had come. Dúnhere took advantage of the distraction, bolting for his sword as the Drow tried to recover.

From the side came yet another ambush; this time it was Dacil who attacked, his sword outstretched toward the Drow maiden.

Dilotè lashed out with her foot, deflecting Dacil's sword away from her as she drew her other sword and hurled it into the blackness before her. A woman's voice cried out as the blade slashed through the brush. Moments later, Athfaë stumbled out from the trees, a long, bleeding gash running across her side.

Dilotè stood in the center of the three Venyarohirrim, the arrow still embedded in her shoulder, glaring into each of their eyes in turn.

"Surrender," Athfaë hissed angrily, lowering her sword until the blade pointed directly at Dilotè's chest.

Dacil and Dúnhere matched Athfaë's maneuver, lowering their weapons at the Drow maiden.

Dilotè smiled a curious, mystical smile as she turned her blade handle toward her captors, the tip pointing directly at her own stomach.

_"Ten'lot__1__," _she whispered quietly, raising her sword.

Dacil shot a quick glance at Athfaë, then lunged forward, grabbing the Drow's weapon at the blade, slicing his hand open on the sharp edge, but preventing Dilotè from completing her honor-suicide that was legendary of the Halda'ohtar.

Dilotè hissed and let out a tiny scream of frustration as she tried with all her might to force the blade into herself.

"No!" Athfaë cried, "We will not allow it!"

Dilotè paused in her struggle long enough to spit on Athfaë, who did not even flinch.

"Take her down," she ordered.

_"Infidels!"_ a baritone voice shouted as Turdú dropped form the branches above, his glittering broadsword shining with his rage.

The Venyarohirrim split immediately, allowing Dilotè to launch herself over their heads.

"Go!"Turdú shouted to her.

The Captain did not move.

"Move, now, Captain! Dilotè, that is an order!"

The Drow maiden swept her sword from the ground and bolted off into the trees, leaving Turdú to face the three Venyarohirrim.

"Well, gentlemen, my lady, it has been a pleasure," the Drow said smoothly, "But I really must be off. Good night to thee."

Athfaë lunged forward, intent on not letting another captive escape, but Turdú held up a glowing hand, causing a mist of dark smoke to wreath up from the ground between them.

By the time it had cleared, the only signs that the Drow had been there were the destroyed bushes and Hama's body.

1 For honor


	21. Chapter XX: The Board is Set

_**Chapter XX: The Board is Set**_

A few hours later, atop a mountain peak in the Misty Mountains where they slept, Celebdraug and Mordae sat up at the same instant.

_"Did you hear that?" _Mordae whispered.

_"Yeah. Orcses," _Celebdraug replied, reaching for her bow.

Mordae rolled out of his pack, grabbing his bow as he did so, and knelt on a rock, peering out into the mountain range. Celebdraug hopped lightly up beside him, and began scanning as well. Suddenly, she pointed. _"There."_

He raised his bow and followed her arm to a cluster of two-dozen orcs stumbling down a nearby mountainside a few leagues north. The orcs were at a much lower elevation than the elves, which gave the two an even greater advantage in their shooting.

_"Namarie," _Celebdraug whispered.

There was a whistling sound like that of a banshee that echoed all throughout the mountains, gradually growing to a drone reminiscent of a swarm of bees.

It ended with two distinct cracks as two orcs fell, long arrows protruding from their foreheads. Their companions, rattled by the noises and shocked by the death of their comrades, paused. With another crack, two more orcs fell. With much shrieking, the remaining score began to scatter for cover amongst the boulders jutting out of the snow, four more falling before they could hide.

_"Damn,"_ Celebdraug hissed as the final orc disappeared from view, _"Come on."_

_"Shoot head level to the left of that boulder,"_ Mordae ordered, pointing to one of the rocks. _"On my mark. Ready...Mark!"_

Two arrows hissed from the peak, Mordae's lodging itself in the leg of an orc that was only partially hidden, causing it to leap back and take Celebdraug's bolt in side of its head.

_"Oooh, very tricky,"_ Celebdraug murmured, drawing another arrow, _"That counts as my kill, you know."_

_"Does not."_

_"My shot killed it. My kill,"_ Celebdraug said with a smile, her elven eyes shining.

_"Dirtbag."_

There were a few moments of standstill as the elves waited for another opportunity, then, the orcs did the most foolhardy thing possible; an all out charge.

_"Hold your fire!"_ Celebdraug commanded emphatically as Mordae raised his bow.

He released his arrow, sending another orc crashing into the snow, and turned, _"Hm?"_

Celebdraug shook her head in resignation, _"Come on. It'll be a lot more fun if we take these guys out the old fashioned way."_

The elves were soon strapped to the skis they had created, a pole with a knife strapped to the end in each hand.

_"Race you,"_ Mordae said, throwing a snowball into Celebdraug's face and dropping in from the rock, sending him rocketing down the face of the mountain.

Celebdraug shrieked and followed blindly, flailing her hands across her face to remove the snow.

The orcs slowed their charge in bewilderment several hundred meters up the mountainside at the sight of the two figures screaming toward them. Before they could split and hide again, however, the elves blasted through the center of the group, poles hissing through the air.

Mordae bunny hopped off the ground and glanced one of his skis off the neck of an orc, snapping the creature's neck with a satisfying crack. As he continued down the slope, Celebdraug skidded to a stop in the center of the shrieking orcs, knocking one of them down as she slid.

She struck out left and right, feeling her poles whip through armor and flesh as arrows began to rain down, fired by Mordae several meters below.

As the last orc fell, Mordae turned and swept down the remaining hundred meters of mountainside, stopping at the bottom. Celebdraug joined him a few moments later.

_"I win," _he said happily.

_"Pherrinah__1__."_

_"You're just jealous," _Mordae scoffed as he removed his skis and began hiking up the next mountain.

Celebdraug rolled her eyes and glanced up the mountainside they had just come from at the pile of orc bodies.

_"Us, thirty. Orcses, nothing."_

As morning broke, bathing the forest of Lorien in its golden warmth, the normal serenity was broken by the thunder of thousands of horses riding from the south.

The lead rider in the lead bore a white flag of peace, but it was unnecessary. The elves of Lothlorien had detected their coming hours previous and had already determined that the army was friendly.

Thus, as the Venyarohirrim entered the outskirts of the tree city of Lorien, they were not greeted by a show of force, but by a small group of the peoples' leaders, Aragorn and Gandalf at the head.

Athfaë, Dacil, and Elfwine, the riders in the front of the Venyarohirrim group dismounted and knelt before the small assembly.

Athfaë spoke, face still bowed to the ground.

"My lords, we come as but humble servants begging your assistance. I am Athfaë Qualmë, leader of the army of Isen Meares, the Venyarohirrim. Our people are besieged by on all fronts by the Fellowship and the Remnant. Without your help, we shall surely fall."

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, leader of the Dunedain and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor. You come seeking aid? What have you to offer?"

"My forces number 150,000," Athfaë answered, "All of them well-trained cavalrymen."

"As well as the armies, I, Dacil Rom, currently command inside Belg..." he paused, "Gondor. I hold the rank of Second in Command inside the Fellowship. I have convinced my superiors, including your son, that I am working as a double agent for them, when I am in fact not. Therefore, I can give us information and give them lies, and they will not know it."

Aragorn nodded. "And you?" he asked, gesturing to Elfwine.

"I act as an advisor to my daughter, as I should."

"Very well. You may make you camp in our forest while we discuss further plans and alliances, but here this! If one tree or pool is harmed by your men, your lives are forfeit."

"Yes, my lord," Athfaë responded with a small nod.

Gandalf spoke for the first time since the group had arrived, "I sense a fear amongst you. You had an encounter with a kind greater than yourselves, did you not?"

"Yes sir," Dacil answered, "We were attacked by what I believe to be two Drow last night. We caught the name of one of them. Dilotè, I believe, sir. She tried to kill herself when we caught her, but she got away."

Gandalf exhaled slowly, "Come, we must talk. Time grows short."

"_Stinking horse-lovers," _Dilotè growled as Turdú sat her down on her bed inside her tent in the Remnant's Isen Meares camp.

"Speak common tongue. There are too many ears around right now," Turdú answered as he drew his knife and pulled out his canteen.

"What art thou doing?" Dilotè asked as he knelt beside the bed.

"What does it look like? I am going to get this filthy dart from thy shoulder."

"I can do it myself, sir."

"Just keep thy mouth shut," Turdú ordered, "We were not supposed to be out there by ourselves."

"But thou told me..."

Turdú slid his knife blade alongside the head of the arrow and pulled up, popping it free from Dilotè's shoulder.

The Halda'ohtar warrior hissed, and chanted softly to herself, _"The Halda'ohtar does not feel pain."_

"Must you always hide behind this warrior mask of thine?" Turdú asked in frustration, "Pain is a force we must all fight; to deny it is ignorance."  
Dilotè sighed and sat in silence for a moment before she spoke. "Are thou still angry with me for what I was going to do?"

"An honor killing?! What kind of idiot taught thee that? Thou art far too valuable for you to kill thyself just so that thou are not captured, Dilotè. I want thee to promise me that thou will never do that again."

"Why?" Dilotè asked with a mischievous grin as Turdú washed and bandaged her shoulder, "Would it upset thee if I was gone?"

Turdú glared up at her and spun his knife in his free hand in a mock gesture of anger. "Go to sleep, Captain. Make sure you keep that wound covered. I do not want to be relieved of command because my Captain is too slow to dodge arrows."

"There were four of them!" Dilotè began to protest.

Turdú grinned, sheathed his knife, and strode from the tent. _"Nidanostre, Dilotè."_

The Remnant captain shook her head slowly as she watched the General walk away, _"Nidanostre...Turdú." _

1 Hobbit


	22. Chapter XXI: The Pieces Are Moving

Chapter XXI: The Pieces are Moving 

Mordae and Celebdraug spent the rest of the night swooping down the slopes onto unsuspecting packs of orcs between bouts of racing, hiking, and finding anything they could jump off of. They spent a lot of time on their backs or faces in the snow, laughing at the ridiculous crashes they often found themselves in. On flatter, easier to ski places, they would duel with their swords or throw snowballs at speeds that would knock lesser creatures unconscious.

Finally, as the sun began to rise over the mountain peaks, Mordae, who had tucked up so as to pass Celebdraug, turned a bit toward the left and launched himself off an enormous boulder that was so large it obscured the other side.

As he was in the air, Mordae looked down at where he would land. _"Rac!"_

The boulder had only seemed to obscure the other side; in actuality, the other side was a cliff above a small lake.

Mordae spun and thrust his poles into the side of the wall, arresting his fall after a few more moments of terrifying descent. Moments later, Celebdraug plummeted past him, stopping her fall just below Mordae in the same way that he had.

"_Why didn't you stop!?" _Mordae screamed down at her, _"You saw me go over, didn't you?"_

"_Yeah, but it looked fun."_

"_I guess it kind of was,"_ Mordae said with a smile.

He paused as he looked over his shoulder. A small lake, more of a large pond, sat just below them, and another cliff was opposite theirs. Something seemed vaguely familiar to him.

Celebdraug, who was a few meters to Mordae's left, looked over her shoulder as well.

"_Hey!"_ she called, _"We found it!"_

"_Are you sure?"_

"_I think I see what's left of the gate right there!"_ she said, letting go with one hand and pointing.

Mordae pulled off his skis and with a sad sigh, let them fall into the lake.

"_What are you doing?"_ Celebdraug asked, grabbing the pole she had let go of as it began to slide out of the cliff.

Without answering, he tucked his legs up to his chest, pressed his feet against the cliff, and pushed off. He fell headfirst, swapping his poles for daggers in mid-air. With hardly a splash, he hit the water and went under; moments later popping up and swimming for shore.

"_You're crazy!" _Celebdraug called down to him from her perch.

He treaded water for a moment. _"You're stuck!"_

With that, he stuck his face back in the water and continued swimming.

With a sigh and an exhilarated whoop, Celebdraug removed her skis and followed.

"_Why do you have your daggers out, Mordae?" _Celebdraug asked as she dragged herself onto shore.

Her cousin sat crouched on the shoreline, dripping wet, his purple and yellow eyes narrowed as he stared out over the lake.

"_Get in the mine," _he hissed, not blinking.

Celebdraug raised her eyebrows, but complied, backing quickly to the wreckage of the gate and beginning to crawl in. _"Coming?"_

Mordae leaped up and sprinted for the gate, and immediately as he did so, several immense tentacles erupted from the water, grasping for him. He sliced desperately at them with his daggers, beating them back, but just as he was nearing the gate, an exceptionally large appendage smashed into him from the side, hurling him several meters to his left.

Celebdraug was up in an instant, her arm hurling a throwing knife before she even really comprehended that she was doing so. It struck something just under the water in the center of the mass, causing the creature to rise bellowing from the pond, its huge, jet black eyes glaring at the elves.

She unslung her bow, nocked three arrows, and fired, sinking the bolts into the beast's head. Roaring in pain, the creature rose higher as Celebdraug fired again, then, once more. The water monster thrashed wildly, then collapsed, the long purple tongue lolling from the fanged mouth.

Replacing her bow, Celebdraug rushed to Mordae's side and assisted him in rising. Mordae groaned as he rose, holding his side.

"_Oh, come on, shake it off. It's only a big octopus,"_ Celebdraug chided. _"Seriously, though. Are you okay?"_

"_I'll heal. Who needs ribs anyway, right?"_

"_Right. Let's go inside."_

"As I have said thousands of time, we are at your command. There is no 'hidden agenda'! We want the Fellowship dead, as do you!" Athfaë practically screamed at Aragorn and Gandalf as the leaders 'discussed' in a high tower of Lorien.

"And you to replace them?" Glorfindel asked, his tone innocent.

"How dare you assume!" Athfaë hissed, beginning to rise from her seat, restrained only by Dacil and Elfwine, who sat next to her, across the table from Gandalf, Glorfindel, Aragorn, and Arwen.

"What she means to say, my lord," Dacil spoke hurriedly, "Is that we only wish to return to the way things were before Eldarion took the throne."

"_Yeah,"_ Glorfindel muttered to himself, _"Things were really good then."_

"_Hush, fool,"_ Aragorn ordered in Sindarin. "Thank you, General," he said, turning toward Dacil.

Turning back to Athfaë, Aragorn smiled, albeit evilly. "I appreciate your honesty and sense of integrity, my dear, but you could work on you manners a bit."

"I apologize, sir," Athfaë answered curtly.

"Thank you. So, correct me if I am wrong," Aragorn said, rising, "You wish to place your army fully under our command, sot that we can accomplish our goal together, then, reinstate me as King? Of your people as well?"

"_Bad idea, girl."_

"Glorfindel, that is enough," Gandalf said briskly.

The elven general slumped in his chair like a pouting child.

Aragorn rolled his eyes, then looked back to Athfaë and gestured for her to continue.

"You are correct. I have no desire to rule," Athfaë answered.

"Then how did you come to rule your people?" Arwen asked in her soft alto.

"Nobody else would!" Athfaë replied, "They planned to just sit back and wait for the Fellowship or the Remnant to run us through. I had hoped that with you and the Udunaedos, we could turn this world right-side up."

"Very noble indeed," Gandalf noted.

"_What about me?" _Glorfindel whined quietly, _"I'm a good fighter."_

"Glorfindel," Gandalf growled menacingly, "If you do not show a little dignity to our guests, I will be forced to remove you."

"_Oh, no. Scary man with big nose is going to kick me out of boring meeting. What will I..."_

"One moment, please," Gandalf said apologetically to the Venyarohirrim as he stood. The wizard marched the few meters to Glorfindel's side, pulled him from his chair, and walked him outside, returning moments later, alone.

"It is time for his nap," Gandalf explained.

Arwen and Athfaë giggled.

Aragorn shook his head, "Athfaë, you and your people are welcome to stay here as our equals. I do not know if we can win outright, but with your help, victory is that much closer."


	23. Chapter XXII: Resistance is Futile

Chapter XXII: Resistance is Futile 

Celebdraug and Mordae completed their change from their woodland uniform to their assassin outfits; donning completely black cloaks, daggers, throwing knives, their ever -present broadswords, and their own invention, a collapsing bow, weaker than a normal longbow, but far more easily concealed. The elves painted one another's faces completely black, and their normally shining eyes were dulled, making them totally invisible to prying eyes, whether it be a torch bearing dwarf or night seeing orc.

Switching to their commando-like tactics of their days in the elven military, Mordae and Celebdraug used hand signals to communicate their thoughts to one another, their almost supernatural night vision and reflexes allowing them to see the other nearly indiscernible figure.

Leaving their excess equipment at the rubble of the gate, the two began to advance through the labyrinth of tunnels that was Moria.

After navigating nearly five leagues of passageways, Mordae, who was in the point position, came to a sudden halt, holding up a clenched fist.

Celebdraug removed her bow, which was only about three-quarters of a meter long in its folded position, and flicked the switch on the side, releasing the tension that held it together. Without a sound, the weapon unfurled, and Celebdraug nocked an arrow against the side. She then crouched beside Mordae, who spread out an ancient looking map from his cloak.

With a few hand gestures, he communicated that they had somehow become lost, whether parts of the mine had collapsed or they had taken a wrong turn was unclear, and Mordae would of course never admit being wrong.

Celebdraug leaned in closer, inspected the map, and then sat back on her heels, a small smile beginning to form on her face. She touched Mordae's shoulder and pointed upwards, toward a small shaft leading high up into the ceiling. If she was correct, that shaft led to the well that she had observed Pippin alert the orcs to the Fellowship's presence over a century ago.

Mordae looked up, then nodded and pointed to her bow. Celebdraug nodded, looped a rope around the end of the arrow, and fired it up through the shaft at a nearly vertical angle. After several seconds, Celebdraug gave a slight tug on the end of the rope and found it to be secure.

She signaled to Mordae to begin the ascent, but he held up a hand and pointed to her. She pointed back at him, and the silent argument continued for several more turns, until finally, Celebdraug grabbed the rope and commenced her climb, rising rapidly up through the darkness into the long shaft.

The ascent was uneventful, but as Celebdraug reached the end of the rope, she found it to be several meters short of the top. She held up a hand to Mordae, who hung by one hand below her, swinging back and forth happily, the adrenaline rush of being on a mission causing him to be even sillier than usual.

Celebdraug kicked his hand lightly, and he sighed and took hold of the rope with both hands. Removing her bow again, Celebdraug found herself unable to fire and still hold on; the bow required two hands to use. She made a mental note to try to figure out a way to fix this problem with a new style of bow, but for the moment, she was stuck.

Celebdraug jumped slightly as she felt Mordae set an arrow of his own on the dragon heart-stringed bow and pull down. Celebdraug adjusted the angle of the bow, and Mordae nodded, then released the dart. The arrow slithered silently up and out of the shaft, and without a sound, buried itself in something hard.

Immediately, there was utter chaos as the shrieks of orcs echoed from the room. Mordae hastily pulled on the rope attached to the bolt they had just launched and felt something slide. He and Celebdraug pressed themselves against the side of the shaft as the body of an orc tumbled over the lip of the well, the arrow embedded in its stomach.

Mordae reached out and snatched the dart from the body as it fell, nearly pulling himself along with the falling orc. Celebdraug snatched the tail of the rope and snapped her wrist, causing the 'intelligent' elven rope to wind itself with a hiss. She then let go of the line she was hanging on and planted her feet on either side of the narrow well, and, shifting her weight back and forth, began to scale the remaining distance.

Celebdraug swore as she neared the top of the climb; the orcs had discerned where the attack had originated and had begun hurling random objects down the shaft. Dodging a rusted dwarf helmet, Celebdraug grabbed the lip of the well with both hands and launched herself a few meters above the offending orcs, drawing her sword in midair. The eight orcs chattered excitedly and gathered in a circle around the well, waiting for her to land so they could attack.

Their setup was ruined, however, as Mordae leaped up into the splits across the well and stabbed a dagger into the orcs on his right and left. With a spin of his legs, he rotated ninety degrees and struck down two more. Celebdraug landed on the outside of the well, her flaming sword whirling.

She stepped forward and with amazing ease, lopped off the head of the nearest survivor. With a graceful spin, she sent the two halves of the next creature whirling off into a corner. Mordae rolled off the well as she dove over him, rolling and cutting off the legs of yet another shrieking being. She lunged and ran the final orc through the chest, then dropped to one knee and plunged her blazing blade into the legless victim of her previous attack, effectively ending the skirmish.

As Mordae sheathed his daggers, Celebdraug raced to the pedestal near the side of Balin's Tomb, where the orcs had the record book of Khazad, the very item the elves were searching for, opened to a page with a diagram of a long, mazelike shaft on it. She scanned the entry, then gasped.

_"Those idiots!" _she screamed, her voice echoing down the many tunnels of Moria.

Mordae jogged to her side, muttering, "_So much for stealth."_

Celebdraug hurled the book into the wall with an angry cry.

_"Frustrated, are we?"_ Mordae asked innocently.

His cousin retrieved the book, located the page it had been opened to, and thrust it in his face.

_"Those damned fools buried the bloody ring! Then, they left instructions for any idiot to find it!" _she hissed.

_"What?" _Mordae took the book from her, scanned the page, and then slammed it down on the pedestal, cracking the base. _"No wonder these orcs in here were such bad fighters. We just slaughtered a bunch of engineers!"_

Celebdraug shrugged, _"Still orcs."_

_"Yes,"_ Mordae agreed, _"But that isn't my point."_

He picked the book back up and began reading, translating from the Moria dialect into the Common tongue and then into Quenya nearly instantaneously as he read aloud.

After he had read the dwarven runes, he pointed to several dark, sloppily scribbled marks that looked like a drunken elf writing in the Tengwar.

_"The orcs have been trying to translate this. See?"_ He held out the book to Celebdraug. _"Apparently, the dwarves put some traps in the shaft as well, and the orcs have been trying to avoid them."_

Celebdraug nodded as she read the page, translating the orcish out loud.

"_They're not very good at this, are they?" _she asked with a smile, pointing to a terrible misinterpretation.

Mordae shook his head and closed the book. _"Come on. Let's go find this shaft."_

"_How do we know where it is?"_

"_Now that, my dear, is a question that I haven't an answer to."_

Celebdraug sighed, _"Obviously the brains of this outfit."_

Mordae scratched his clean-shaven chin. _"We could track the translators."_

"_Brilliant!"_ Celebdraug shouted, and dropping to her knees, she pretended to search for footprints. With a melodramatic gasp, she rose; raced randomly about the room, nose to the ground, then stopped at the blood splashed scene around the well. _"Aha!"_

Mordae threw a large bone that remained of the cave troll that had attacked the Fellowship at Celebdraug. The story that the nine had told had been one of great heroism and teamwork in taking down the beast, ending with Legolas felling the creature with a well-placed arrow. In actuality, the troll had died from having half a dozen meter-long arrows buried up its spinal cord by the unseen Udunaedos, hired by Elrond to keep watch over the group.

"_No, stupid!" _Mordae cried, _"They came from somewhere, didn't they?"_

"_Ah,"_ Celebdraug said, casually reaching up and catching the hurled object, _"You makes a point."_

"_Thank you. Now, let's move,"_ he said, drawing his glowing yellow sword. _"Stealthily?" _

Celebdraug shook her head, _"Screw stealth."_

Mordae scanned the ground leading out the door for footprints, found them, and bolted down the path, screaming like a vampire. Celebdraug smiled, screamed as well, and followed.


	24. Chapter XXIII: Evil Awakes

Chapter XXIII: Evil Awakens 

Across the planes of Isen Meares snaked a long, green, tidal wave of men bearing weapons of all kinds, each soldier tense and ready for battle. Aragost marched at the head of the group, sword drawn, his eyes darting nervously about as they drew nearer to New Edoras. His ears strained for the sound of distant hoof beats that would betray one of the dreaded Venyarohirrim ambush cavalry groups.

As they drew within sight of the city, Aragost turned and made eye contact with the Captain of the Infantry, Valandil. The other man, a bit over two meters, wiry, and neatly shaven, raised his eyebrows, "Yes, sir?"

"Something's wrong," Aragost said quietly.

"Wrong, sir?"

"We should have been detected by now. Have you not realized that we have not encountered a single Venyarohirrim on this whole march?"

The Captain screwed up his face, thinking, "Good point, sir." He turned to Eorlmer, who marched on the other side of Aragost in Dacil's place. "Is this customary of the Venyarohirrim?"

"To not respond to an attack? Not to my knowledge," Eorlmer remarked, drawing his sword, "Something is definitely wrong."

As the three marched over the crest of the final hill leading to the valley where New Edoras sat, they suddenly drew back in horror. The western side of the plains before the city was whitewashed and charred, strewn with bodies of black armored figures. But what was even more terrifying was the sea of black armor that waited on the eastern side. Two thousand Drow elites raised their glittering black blades, and crying in their ancient tongue, they surged forward at the Fellowship army.

Sprinting at the head of the elites, one samurai sword in hand, Dilotè licked her lips at the prospect of the massacre that was sure to be the result of the attack. She had to admit, though sometimes Mornië grated on her, he was a brilliant general.

As she drew closer to the fleeing figures which she assumed were the commanders of the army, the Drow reached behind herself and drew a three-pronged sai from her belt. With all her might, she hurled it into the lower half of one of the men's leg, dropping him, screaming, to the ground. Dilotè launched herself into the air a few meters behind her fallen target, landing with her legs straddling over his back. She spun her black sword, then unceremoniously plunged it into him.

"_I got first kill!"_ she shouted to Turdú as he raced past. He spun, mock glared at her, then smashed into the fleeing Fellowship.

Glorfindel jogged happily up one of the many tree paths in Lorien toward Mordae and Celebdraug's house. He reached it quickly, and entered without knocking, as though he lived there.

The Silvan elf knew that his Noldorian companions were not home, but he also knew that he could contact them via the palantír that they kept in one of the long spires atop their house.

It was to this spire that Glorfindel made his way to, pausing only to admire the new items from the South that had been added to the Udunaedos' collection. Upon entering the tower, he uncovered the palantír and placed his palm on it. His elven mind had no difficulty unlocking the power of the orb, and he soon felt his mind whirling over the snow capped Misty Mountains, spiraling into the rubble of the Moria gate, and finally shooting through the dark tunnels of the mine, his gaze coming to rest at an aerial view of some seven hundred orcs with scores of cave trolls gathered around a large shaft in a huge cavern.

Glorfindel was confused for a moment; the palantír usually brought him straight to where Mordae and Celebdraug were. His bewilderment ended a moment later as he spotted two black figures rappelling at an insane pace down the face of the wall beside the orcs.

He smiled as he reached out and touched Mordae's mind with his own. Boo. 

Glorfindel! What's up, my man! Mordae's baritone voice echoed through Glorfindel's head.

Got kicked out of a meeting. I didn't want to be there anyway. 

Yay Glorfindel! Celebdraug's cried as she joined the two.

Check this move out, Mordae said as he launched himself away from the wall a few meters up from the ground. He back flipped in mid-air, landing atop one of the brutish cave troll's heads. The troll had no time to react before Mordae fired an arrow down the creature's spine, causing it to topple over onto a dozen of the smaller orcs.

The reaction was immediate, and almost amusing. The terrified and puzzled orcs scattered in every direction, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Many drew blades, but there were no enemies in sight.

The chamber grew almost silent as Celebdraug leaped gracefully off the face of the wall, igniting her sword as she fell. The glow of the flames was mesmerizing, and all activity ceased; at least until she landed, swung, and slew a half dozen of the mystified orcs.

Chaos took hold again as Mordae lit his own blade, the light nearly blinding those in close proximity to him. The elf whipped his sword over his head and swung hard, cleaving through three orcs and a piece of mining equipment, causing it to fall onto several more of the shrieking creatures.

Celebdraug swung her sword back and forth as if hacking through a thick forest, flinging orc bodies left and right as she drove toward the center of the cavern where the shaft sat. Hundreds of orcs boiled from unseen passageways as their comrades were slaughtered by the assault of the two elves. The new arrivals began sending showers of arrows into the churning horde beneath, felling more of their kindred and rarely coming close to the Noldor. The battle's outcome was obvious; none could bring down the elves.

'_If only we had one hundred warriors such as these two, we could destroy the Drow in a week,' _Glorfindel mused to himself.

Flattered, truly, Mordae replied as he hurled another piece of equipment into a dozen orcs, crushing them.

Glorfindel swore. The elves could hear his every thought as long as they were connected through the palantír.

Celebdraug's laugh filled his ears, It's okay, Glorfindel, don't cry. 

Don't get your head cut off by that big orc behind you. 

Celebdraug whirled around, slicing the oversized orc standing behind her.

Thanks. 

No problem. 

The elves battered their way to the edge of the shaft, then, turned and broke through to one another. They made eye contact, slew a few more of their pursuers, and leaped over the edge.

Celebdraug grabbed the lip of a balcony as she dropped past and swung onto it, Mordae landing beside her. The orcs above began firing arrows at the two, who returned fire with their own bows.

A thousand meters below them, a half dozen cave trolls wielding massive hammers and picks continued the excavation of the chasm. The work was brutal, but they carried on without complaint.

As the troll in the middle removed his pick from the ground, a harsh red light burst through the hole it made. Without a thought, the creature leaned back and struck again, widening the fissure and increasing the brilliant glare. Another one of the brutes, attracted by the light, smashed his pick into the break, this time, bringing an unearthly rumble along with the flood of light.

Celebdraug dropped her bow to the ground as, deep in the recesses of her mind, the sound registered with a terrifying familiarity.

"_Mother of Morgoth..."_ she whispered.

Mordae ducked behind the arrow-ridden plank they were using for cover and looked at Celebdraug. His face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt, but he looked happy, glad to be in the fight. _"What is it?"_

The trolls beat the rocks again, and this time, an intense wave of heat, a deafening roar, and a blazing red glow issued from the pit.

Mordae's happy grin faded immediately.

Illúvatar save you! Glorfindel cried, the mind link shattering as his extreme fear broke the connection.

Rising from the chasm, flaming whip and sword at the ready, flew an ancient creature that lived on only in the nightmares of those few who had seen one and survived. With a sweep of its sword, two score of the orcs vanished, and another three score ignited from the heat. The beast landed at the lip of the shaft and let out a deep bellow, calling down a pillar of flame that incinerated another hundred of the orcs, who were now completely out of their minds with terror.

Mordae and Celebdraug's fear filled eyes met, and Mordae whispered one word, a cry echoed from ages past heard by far too many a good elf.

_"Balrog."_


	25. Chapter XXIV: Clash of the Titans

Chapter XXIV: Clash of the Titans 

**_"Who disturbeth me?"_** the demon rumbled in ancient Black Speech as the orcs scattered, their silhouettes standing out against the raging inferno that the balrog had called to cage in the creatures.

_"Oiale'kula__1__,"_ Mordae spat as he hurled his bow, which had burst into flames, into the chasm.

Celebdraug nodded as she drew her own flaming sword, _"Oiale'kula."_

The balrog moved away from the blazing mine shaft and into the thick of the orcs, battering through their lines with ten times the ease that Mordae and Celebdraug had.

Celebdraug waited until she could no longer see the beast's tail before leaping off of the glowing metal balcony and grabbing the wall of the mine.

Mordae followed her, and together, they scaled the short distance to the main cavern, where the balrog was finishing its work with the orcs.

The two elves sprinted for all they were worth toward the nearest sub-cavern entrance, hoping to escape the wrath of the demon by slipping past it when it was distracted.

Just before they reached the flame wreathed opening, however, there was an intense blast of heat and a gut-wrenching laugh.

Mordae dropped to the ground as he felt the balrog sweep over him, flying on its bat-like wings. Celebdraug, on the other hand, whirled to face it, crying out in Quenya, the language of Valinor.

_"Daro', e'vell esse a Eru!__2__" _

The balrog let out an earsplitting shriek and landed heavily on the charred stones of the cavern floor.

**_"Thou defies me?"_** the balrog asked in an almost amused tone.**_ "Thou hast not the power to control that which thee attempts to command."_**

_"N'uma, noss uum. Dara' vell Seldar mano osse tu caela her'vanwa Varda ar'Udun__3__!"_ Mordae cried as he rose from the heated ground, his face blackened and cloak smoldering, and ran to Celebdraug's side.

**_"Thy God has power over nothing. Where is he now? Dost thou see him?" _**the balrog shifted its gaze to all sides for a moment, as if searching for Illúvatar's presence.

"**_I see him not. And he shall save thee not. Thy God is dead, and soon," _**the demon raised its sword high above its head and started toward the elves, **_"Thou shall join him."_**

Mordae laughed haughtily and tossed his shoulder length hair back as he raised his sword in return. _"Osse naiva faain dos lith n'alaquel a'Udun__4__," _he growled, beginning to advance on the balrog, his sword glowing.

_"E'dos tanar'ri'fia a'vell ia__5__!" _Celebdraug added, her sword gleaming as well as she sprinted ahead of Mordae with a battle cry.

The balrog roared, and the three collided with a thunderclap that shook the mines to the core.

Turdú watched as Dilotè marched slowly through the body-strewn battlefield of New Edoras as the sun sank behind the hills. The battle had been over in less than two hours, leaving thousands of Fellowship soldiers dead with very few Remnant losses. Now, his Captain moved methodically through the dead and dying, finishing the work that was begun on those who were wounded with a quick stab of her samurai sword.

Turdú was almost repulsed by the coldness with which she carried out her ritual. The Halda'ohtar had strange traditions, one of which was to leave no enemies wounded on the battlefield. Another, which Turdú had saved Dilotè from, was the honor killing. If she failed a mission or was captured, Dilotè would attempt to take her own life in shame.

The General shook his head as Dilotè came to the final cluster of soldiers that she had not looked over. She paused, her gaze sweeping slowly over the men. After a moment, she strode swiftly over to one of the bodies, held her sword over her head, blade pointing toward the ground, and thrust it downward in a quick stabbing motion as she dropped to one knee. As she knelt beside the body, Dilotè raised her sword toward the setting sun and swung it in an odd pattern.

Upon finishing her ceremony, Dilotè jogged back across the field of the dead to stand beside Turdú, who gave her a strange look, despite his efforts not to.

_"What?"_

Turdú swallowed, "Nothing, Captain."

Dilotè looked slightly hurt. _"Sir, I know it may seem odd to you, but my traditions are my life."_

The General nodded nearly imperceptibly. "Would thee be interested in coming to my quarters to speak tonight?"

Dilotè sighed at Turdú's refusal to use elvish. "I would be, sir, as long as we can use elvish."

"That is one thing I wish to speak about. Yes, we can speak elvish, if that will be reason enough for thee to come."

Dilotè smiled, "I shall see you in an hour then, sir."

Turdú nodded and returned the smile half-heartedly, still a bit shaken from seeing Dilotè's performance. "An hour."

"Gandalf!!" Glorfindel practically screamed as he sprinted through Lorien, "Gandalf!!"

The Silvan elf skidded around the corner of another ramp and nearly collided with Niphredil, his girlfriend.

_"Glorfindel! What's wrong?" _she asked, reaching out and grabbing his arm.

He turned and faced the slender, blonde-haired elf maiden. _"It's Mordae and Celebdraug. They're in major trouble."_

_"Trouble?"_

Glorfindel took hold of her hand and continued racing down the streets, dragging her along with him.

A few moments later, the pair located Gandalf, who was standing speaking to Dacil and Athfaë.

_"Gandalf!" _Glorfindel and Niphredil cried in unison.

"What is it?" the wizard asked, turning slowly to Niphredil.

"I actually do not know," she said, her blue eyes narrowing slightly.

"It's Mordae and Celebdraug!" Glorfindel panted, his normally light skin even whiter than usual. "There's a...a..."

"Ambush?" Athfaë offered.

"Army?" Dacil suggested.

"Hobbit?" Niphredil said with a small smile.

"Balrog!" Glorfindel screamed.

Niphredil turned a blinding shade of white, and wrapped herself around Glorfindel's arm. Gandalf nearly dropped his staff. Athfaë and Dacil merely looked at one another.

"They are not real," Athfaë chided as though speaking to a small child.

The two elves glared at the humans.

_"Foolish children," _Niphredil hissed.

_"That's what I said, and he got mad at me," _Glorfindel whispered to her, nodding accusingly at Gandalf.

Gandalf ignored him and began running as fast as he could toward the Udunaedos' house.

"Follow children, and see for yourselves what myths are capable of," Niphredil murmured, pulling Glorfindel closer to her. "And pray to whatever god thou serves that Mordae and Celebdraug do not suffer too much."

1 Most vulgar word in the elvish vocabulary

2 Halt, in the name of Illúvatar

3 No, we do not. But the God we serve has power over Heaven _and_ Hell

4 We will send your ashes back to Hell

5 And your soul to the Abyss


	26. Chapter XXV: Doom of the Abyss

_**Chapter XXV: Doom of the Abyss**_

There was a rap on Turdú's door just as darkness had settled over the land. He looked up sharply, then recalled his invitation to Dilotè. Rising, the Drow strode over the door and opened it, revealing his Captain.

_"Mae govannen, Turdú."_

_"Welcome, please come in."_

The woman wore a loose black kimono, with her swords hanging to her left side. Her hair was up in the style that she wore whenever she went into battle, but it had obviously been washed since the last battle.

_"You look nice," _Turdú stuttered, feeling stupid as soon as he had.

Dilotè snorted in dismissal of the comment, _"Military genius. Military."_

Turdú smiled weakly.

_"Anyway," _his Captain said, _"What is this meeting all about?"_

Turdú shut the door and walked slowly to his small sitting area, gesturing toward the couches. _"I just wanted to spend some time together when we weren't involved with the war."_

Dilotè walked behind him and sat, legs folded, in one of the couches. _"Time together?"_

Turdú sat across from her and folded his hands, _"Yes. I have found your company to be quite enjoyable."_

_"Oh," _Dilotè said with a small laugh, _"When you put it that way."_

The Drow General shook his head, _"I am so bad at this."_

_"Yes." _

He laughed slightly, _"Thank you."_

The aroma of dark-elven foods began to waft from the small kitchen in Turdú's quarters. He looked up, then rose. _"Just in time, if I may say so."_

Dilotè rose as well, smiling, but saying nothing.

The two brought the food to the General's table and sat, Dilotè expertly swinging her sheathed swords so that they rested across the back of her chair.

"_Why did you bring those?" _Turdú asked, gesturing toward her blades.

"_Habit. We always wear our swords."_

Turdú raised his eyebrows. _"You must tell me more about where you come from. Your people fascinate me."_

Dilotè smiled, _"I bet." _She began to serve herself from the food atop the table. _"The Halda'ohtar are a very secretive people. Our ancestors were the head of the Imperial government, which, as I'm sure you know about, fell approximately four-thousand years ago to the military."_

Turdú nodded, _"I was in that war."_

Dilotè raised her eyebrows and smiled evilly, _"I hope you didn't kill any of my ancestors, or I'd have to strike you down right here in revenge." _

Turdú laughed, _"I fought for the Emperor, of course."_

The Drow maiden, reached slowly over her shoulder toward her swords. _"Of course you did," _she said teasingly, dropping her hand back into her lap.

_"Anyway, after the Empire fell, the royalty went into hiding. They began to train their children as Halda'ohtar, which were the Emperor's elite guard during his rule, in hopes that some day we could retake the throne."_

_"But you haven't," _Turdú stated, _"In fact, I think I've met three of you in my entire life. There are currently less than fifty enlisted in the Remnant."_

_"Because many of us see the Remnant as the government that overthrew our ancestors," _Dilotè countered.

Turdú nodded, _"Understandable. Do you?"_

_"No. I feel it would be better to unite under the Remnant banner rather than stay divided. I don't like the restrictions on tradition, however."_

_"Such as the speaking of elvish," _Turdú offered.

_"Yes. And that we have to wear Remnant armor, rather than our anga'tavar__1__."_

_"But the Remnant armor is one-hundred percent stronger than your anga'tavar armor," _Turdú argued, _"That means that you have half the chance of getting killed."_

_"And it's also restricting. And cold, unnatural."_

_"True," _Turdú surrendered.

_"It's just that I was raised with our traditions, and it's very hard to get over all of them."_

_"I can understand," _the General said with a small nod of empathy.

_"But will you do anything about it?"_

Turdú sat back, quite surprised, _"What?"_

_"Well, if you feel about me the way that you do, which, though you haven't said, is quite obvious, couldn't you use your position to talk to Mornië?" _Dilotè asked, her eyes glowing.

_"You're third in command of the entire Remnant! Why don't you ask?"_

_"Because he won't listen to me. I'm a woman. I'm a Halda'ohtar. I'm not...equal...to you, in his eyes," _Dilotè growled angrily.

_"You're bordering on treason, Dilotè."_

_"Turdú, how would you feel to have been trained as I was, in my rank and position, and still be seen as somehow less of a person?"_

The General sighed and leaned back in his chair. _"I suppose you make a good point. But you do realize that if I anger him, I might be stripped of more than my rank, correct?"_

Dilotè did not answer.

Turdú, looked at her for a long moment, then slapped his hand down on the tabletop. _"But I don't care. If we are to be truly united, we must make sure all of our troops, especially our officers..."_

The Drow maiden looked up, _"And friends."_

_"And friends," _Turdú said with a smile, _"Are happy."_

Dilotè smiled back at him, her white teeth gleaming in contrast against the light purple of her skin. _"Thank you. Now, you must tell me about yourself."_

As the initial shock of the colliding powers wore off, Mordae surged forward through the swirling lights, sword raised toward the three-meter tall demon that stood before him. The creature smiled sinisterly, its long fangs glowing molten red, then, stepped forward to meet the elf's attack, the massive, flaming sword sweeping in a long arc toward Mordae.

_"O Illúvatar, dirn nossa, ar onin nossa poldora, Im kyerm__2__," _Mordae implored Illúvatar as he raised his blade to block the balrog's swing.

_"Im naa sinome, mia Erusen. Gorga nid,__3__" _a soothing voice echoed in the elves' minds, bringing them an odd sense of peace in the hellfire that they stood in.

The crash of mìthril on flame rang through the chamber as Mordae blocked the attack, his muscles screaming in defiance. The balrog roared in surprise at the strength of its intended victim, then lashed out with its whip at Celebdraug, striking her across the chest.

She cried out as she was flung back, but rolled and rose to her feet as soon as she hit, anger burning in her eyes as her cloak smoldered from the heat.

Mordae ducked under the flaming blade and sprinted toward the creature, which batted him aside easily with the back of its hand, burning his side horribly. Mordae slammed into a large boulder and slid to the ground.

_"Illúvatar!" _Celebdraug screamed as she raised her blade. Huge flaming projectiles, like those that she had called down upon the orcs in New Edoras, hurled from all around her into the demon, which bellowed and raised a mind shield, deflecting the attack.

Mordae rose slowly to his feet and raised his sword again, charging forward at the beast. This time, the balrog was distracted by Celebdraug's attack, and the elf managed to get within striking range. With a vengeful ferocity, Mordae thrust his sword into the creature's sword arm, causing the flaming blade to drop to the ground, where it smoldered into nothingness, void of its owner's contact.

The balrog roared and turned its attention to Mordae, raising the whip high for a crushing blow. As the demon's hand rose, however, Celebdraug hurled a throwing knife into its finger, causing it to pause for a moment. The elf-maiden charged forward and sliced the beast's forearm with her sword, causing the whip to sputter and fall.

With a deafening roar, a huge column of black fire dropped from the ceiling, engulfing the battlefield. Mordae and Celebdraug raised mind shields of their own and cried out to Illúvatar, not breaking the attack as they slashed and hacked at the creature.

As the dark fire increased, Mordae released a maelstrom of light into the balrog's shield, causing it to flicker as the demon struggled to keep it intact. Celebdraug added a whirlwind of her red flame that cut through the black inferno and surrounded the balrog in a raging storm.

The three powers battled against one another for a long moment, dueling to see whose shields would last the longest. Just as the elves began to loose consciousness, the dark blaze stopped suddenly. Mordae and Celebdraug fell to their knees before the balrog, still praying to Illúvatar, weak, and badly burned, but alive.

The balrog, on the other hand, faired not as well. Its once glowing red body had become solid black, the evil energy it once possessed greatly diminished. Dark blood flowed from multiple glowing wounds inflicted by the elven blades.

Despite this beaten condition, the creature laughed its ominous, bone-rending cackle.

**_"Thou fight well, infidels,"_ **it wheezed. **_"But to what avail? Wounded as I am, thou can never truly vanquish me."_**

_"I beg to differ,"_ Mordae countered, staggering to his feet.

Beside him, Celebdraug rose as well, weakly raising her weapon. _"This may hurt a little."_

The elves limped forward at the speed a man can sprint, leaped a meter in the air, and drove their blades deep into the balrog's chest.

A dreadful scream broke through the chamber as the demon staggered back, the elven blades still embedded in glowing circles on its body. White dots began to appear on its body, from which shafts of light burst forth. The light swelled even greater, then with a dull thud, the creature exploded in a blast of light and flame, the scream dying away slowly.

The elves knelt where they had fallen, breathing heavily.

_"Ha,"_ Mordae coughed, _"And Gandalf made it seem like that was a hard thing to do."_

A thunderous roar shook the walls again as a sinister cloud of energy swirled from where the balrog had stood. In the center of the cloud, two blood-red eyes formed, swirling like a molten whirlpool.

Vicious laughter rang in the elves' ears, along with the voice of the balrog, **_"Thou hast slain my earthly form, for the time being. Can thou contend with my will?"_**

****Mordae and Celebdraug groaned as their eyes met. Then, Celebdraug gritted her teeth, looked up, and shouted, _"Im tilalle ar'qaelumlle e'a vell Ia__4__!"_

_**"Thou hast not the power!"**_

_"E'vell esse a Eru, Im naille a'nio alorte a'Endore__5__!"_

The balrog shrieked again as the cloud swirled faster, louder and longer than ever, then with a crack, disappeared, leaving the chamber in darkness.

Mordae and Celebdraug's eyes met, and they gazed blearily at one another. As one, the cousins succumbed to darkness.

1 Iron-wood. A type of very hard tree that is native to the Drowlands, used by the Halda'ohtar to make armor.

2 O Illúvatar, guard us, and give us strength, I pray.

3 I am here, my children. Fear not.

4 I bind you and cast you into the Void!

5 In the name of Illúvatar, I command you to never return to Middle Earth!


	27. Chapter XXVI: Old Wounds Reopened

Chapter XXVI: Old Wounds Reopened 

"Are they alive?" Athfaë asked worriedly.

Gandalf turned to her, "I know not. I hope and pray so, but..." he trailed off.

Dacil swallowed hard and set his hand on Athfaë's shoulder. "What will happen if they do not survive?"

Glorfindel held Niphredil closer and looked northward toward the far off Misty Mountains. "All will be lost."

Eldarion sat at his desk in his chamber, head propped on one arm, staring down at the blank desktop. He did not look up as a knock echoed through his chamber. "Come," he said blearily.

Aragost and Eorlmer entered, looking quite bedraggled.

"Sir," they muttered, saluting weakly.

"Sit," Eldarion commanded without meeting their eyes. He blinked a few times, "Where is Valandil?"

"Dead, sir," Aragost sighed. "The first to fall, in fact."

"What in Udun happened out there?" the King mumbled.

"I wish I could tell you, sir," Aragost groaned. "We had no warning. It was all so chaotic. We lost upwards of five-thousand men."

Eldarion let his hand that held his head fall with a thud to the table. "To what?" he growled.

"Drow elites, sir, if I am not mistaken," Eorlmer offered meekly.

"Drow?"

"Yes, sir," the Captain replied. "There were no Venyarohirrim to be found at New Edoras. It looked as though there had been a rather large battle earlier, and all that remained was a horde of Remnant soldiers. They decimated our troops."

"But how?" Eldarion asked again.

The three sat in silence, shell-shocked by the day's events. For several minutes, no sounds were uttered.

"Dacil," Aragost finally growled.

"Sir?" Eorlmer questioned.

"Dacil knew about this. Or he should have. Either way, he was not there to help us, to provide us with information," the General replied.

Again, nobody spoke.

"You are correct, Aragost," Eldarion hissed after a long pause. He turned to Eorlmer. "Did he tell you anything about this?"

The Venyarohirrim held up his hands, "No, sir! The Nazgul themselves could not force me to lead thousands of men to their deaths. Who advised you to attack New Edoras, if I may be so bold?"

The King slowly raised his head, his glare piercing. He spoke in a cold, venomous, voice. "No, _Captain_, you may not. That is far above your power to question."

Eorlmer bowed his head, "I apologize, sir."

Eldarion did not break his stare, "I shall be gracious to you, Eorlmer. You have fought well in my services." He clenched his fist, "However, your General has displeased me greatly. And that is something that one does only once."

Drawing a long knife from his boot, Eldarion held it hilt first to Eorlmer, "The next time you see Dacil, I want you to use this. It is in your best interest that I never must deal with his treachery again."

The Venyarohirrim captain swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."

At midnight, Eldarion sat before the palantír in his secret chamber once again. He placed his hand on the orb as he had done so many times and called out to 'Isildur'.

After a few moments, the swirling, ghost-like figure materialized.

"You," Eldarion growled, "You led me to a trap!"

"I did not, thou fool!" the 'ghost' thundered, sending a jolt of dark power into Eldarion's chest. "Thy fool of a General led the Drow to New Edoras to assist them!"

The King coughed, spattering small drops of blood over the surface of the palantír. "I apologize, my lord. I should not have doubted you."

The image of Isildur smiled ominously. "Thou should do well to remember that. Now, I have a new plan for thee. Thou shall take thy men, in full force, through the Dead Marshes and west into Lothlorien itself. The Udunaedos are journeying northward, and will not be able to come to their friends' aid in time. They will never see it coming. Thy troops will utterly crush the Dunedain, _and_ the Venyarohirrim. Thy General shall not betray thee again, this I promise."

Eldarion smiled as the ingenuity of the plan began to dawn on him, "Yes, my lord. I shall lead the army myself!"

"Excellent."

_Pain. Flames. Blood. So much destruction._

These words echoed in the young elf's mind as he fled the burning city of Gondolin. Its once white walls were now black as night, charred by the fire of the demons and swarming with the infernal hordes of orcs. The screams of the dying rang fresh in his ears.

He saw his mother slammed into the ground by a massive orc's mace; dying to save her children. He watched as his father and the outfit of soldiers he led were swept away by the torrent of flame sweeping from the mouth of a dragon like a river of death. He was standing again in the center of his house, holding his mother's bloodstained sword, watching as he failed to save his younger siblings, their tiny bodies shattered by the brutal creatures of Udun.

On, on he sprinted, through the corpse-strewn streets, out the out the broken wall, and into the forest on the mountain atop which the city sat. He adjusted his angle as he ran downhill and intercepted an orc that was in his path.

With a cry of rage and frustration, he swung his mother's blade with all of his strength, sending his victim's severed head tumbling down the mountainside before him.

He reached the bottom of the mountain and slid to a stop on his knees. His long brown hair fell over his shoulders, obscuring his face, as racking sobs shook his body.

_"Why?" _the elf cried, _"Oh, Illúvatar, why?"_

His appeal to the All-God seemed lost in the forest around him.

There were those that heard, however. A unit of fifteen orcs patrolling the forest altered course and headed toward the sound of the anguished elf.

The young Noldor heard the creatures' approach, but did not seem to care. Instead, he grasped the hilt of his mother's sword even tighter and spoke the language of the High Elves, Quenya, through gritted teeth.

"_Illúvatar, I call upon you one final time. Give me the power to make my death worthy enough to avenge my family. Let me slay my share of the fell creatures that now overrun your world. Let me do my part to cleanse your broken earth."_

A ball of light began to grow above the elf, and a voice, ranging form the lowest groan of the earth to the highest whistle of the wind, sounded in the elf's head.

"_Do not cry, my child. You shall not fall. Nay, you shall rise. I bestow upon you the gift of light, and the power to slay hordes. Now stand, and fight with the glory your God deserves!"_

With guttural, animal-like cries, the orcs burst from the trees and brush all around the elf. Rather than leaping to his feet, the Noldor rose slowly, ominously raising his head as he did so. His normally black eyes began to swirl with the yellow of the sun and the dark purple of the night sky in the west. Lightning flashed behind the staring pupils, stopping the servants of Morgoth in their tracks.

The elf rose to his feet ominously drawing himself up fully to his over two-meter height. He raised the sword in his hand and focused all his hatred, all his vengeance, on the orc captain.

Before the Noldor could attack with his blade, a bolt of light shot from his body into the orc. There was a flash, and with a crack, the captains smoking body was blasted back into the brush.

The other orcs shrieked and exchanged terrified glances at the sight of their leader. The elf, however, barely seemed to register what had occurred. He marched onward, toward the frightened creatures, sword ready.

Suddenly, he was standing beside another elf, a female, with whom he shared a connection like no other. Behind them lay the broken body of their master, before them, the dark fire of a score of balrogs. They were in a castle of sorts. A dark, cold place, void of any thoughts of happiness. _Udun._

The woman stepped in at the demons, which lashed out with his flaming whip, searing her face terribly down her right eye.

The young man leaped to assist her as he fell, taking the heat from the tip of the tri-twined whip across his cheek, burning their imprint into his flesh.

The girl was screaming. Screaming in pain, in anger. Just screaming...

Suddenly, Mordae woke with a start. His heart pounded from the terrifying memories of his dark past. Celebdraug's screams still echoed in his ears.

But were they? Mordae shook his head, but the screams remained, gradually subsiding into sobs. He tried to stand, but fell back against the hard ground, pain shooting through his body.

Where was he? All he could see were rocks, everywhere, rocks. All charred, broken. Suddenly, everything came back to him in a horrifying rush. The cave. The orcs. The balrog. A blinding flash.

He tried to speak. _"Celebdraug?"_

The sobs ceased for a moment. _"Mordae? You're alive?" _Celebdraug's voice answered.

"Who's Mordae? This is Sauron." Joyous laughter broke through the crying. "I thought you were dead! I tried reaching you with my mind, but...but..." "I was taking a little trip down memory lane," Mordae responded. "How was it?" "Like Udun, Baradu, and Galadriel's house, all mixed into one. Only worse." 


	28. Chapter XXVII: Battles of the Heart

_**Chapter XXVII: Battles of the Heart**_

In the darkness of the eternal night that reigned over Baradu, the Generals of the Remnant gathered. Mornië, Garulf, Grishnákh, and Vrayon sat atop the tower in a half circle, a palantír on a pedestal projecting Turdú's image before them. The Drow General sat on a comfortable chair inside his quarters, Dilotè standing behind him.

"The time of our triumph draws nigh," Mornië spoke in an excited, hushed tone. "The horsemen have allied themselves with the elves, hoping to overthrow the Belgorians."

"This is good?" Garulf growled.

"For zossse of usss vith brainsss," Vrayon hissed, "Ve sssee zat zisss vill make zem zat much easssier to kill."

"Precisely," Mornië responded, ignoring Garulf's anger. "I, I mean, 'Isildur'..." the generals laughed, "...have told Eldarion to march on the Venyarohirrim in full force by going up through the Dead Marshes. There, they will meet them in battle. When the Belgorians empty their country, and the horsemen empty theirs, we shall strike Isen Meares and take gasp of the whole country. From there, we shall move to Belgor, intercept the remainder of the armies, and crush them as well, thus, making Middle Earth ours."

"But how will we assure the Venyarohirrim will be in the Marshes?" Turdú questioned.

"I believe that Gandalf and the Noldor communicate through a palantír," Mornië answered. "The horsewoman is eager and headstrong; she will easily fall. I will pose as one of the elves and command her to attack Minas Tirith by way of the Dead Marshes. She will not think twice."

"And of the ring?" Dilotè said, her image walking around Turdú to the front of the chair.

"I know not," the Remnant Commander replied, "I have the rings of men, and four of the dwarf rings. Thou dost not yet have the night crystal, however, correct?"

"No, my Lord," Turdú said, "But we have discovered its location."

"Oh, really now?" Mornië commented, sounding slightly amused and quite happy.

"It lies in the southern area of Mirkwood, where Dol Guldur once stood," the General continued. "We should have it within the week."

"Excellent," Mornië replied with a grin. He paused, his grin fading, and then returning. "Vrayon, thou hast visitors."

Vrayon, who had been gazing out over the dark forest, looked up suddenly, cocking his head. "Vat?"

There was a flash of red and black a moment later in the center of the group, and three crimson-cloaked vampires appeared in the middle of the cloud. The tallest soldier stepped forward, revealing himself to be Smynoc, Vrayon's captain. The other two, elite vampire soldiers, stepped into line behind the captain, standing at attention.

The pale humanoid saluted all the Generals, bowed to Mornië, and then hurried to Vrayon's side, whispering in the high, shrieking, language of the vampires.

Vrayon held up a hand, interrupting his captain. "Common Ssspeech, pleassse. Ve are on Remnant busssinesss, Captain."

"I am sssorry, sssir," Smynoc mumbled, nodding nearly imperceptibly.

"Thank thee, Vrayon," Mornië said with a smile. "The rest of thee should do well to follow his example."

On the palantír's projection, Dilotè looked up at Turdú, who rolled his eyes. The Drow maiden giggled slightly, but none of the others seemed to notice.

Smynoc began again, "Sssir, ve have good news. Khazad isss found."

Khazad, the last remaining dwelling of the dwarves, was rumored to be the home of the last remaining and most powerful dwarf ring.

"Exsssellent!" Vrayon cried, leaping to his feet. "How long ago, Captain?"

"Two hoursss," Smynoc answered. "Ve did not vant to begin ze attack vithout you, sssir."

Vrayon began to open his mouth as if to speak, but his eyes darkened suddenly. Closing his mouth with a snap of fangs, Vrayon nodded.

Mornië dismissed the odd behavior and smiled, "Thou trains thy soldiers well, Vrayon. Go, and may the night be at they side."

"Thank you, sssir," the vampire said with a crisp salute. With a nod, Vrayon turned to Turdú's image. "Asss alvayss, it hasss been a pleasssure ssspeaking vith you." He glanced over his shoulder at Grishnákh and nodded again, then turned to Garulf and shrugged nonchalantly. "I vould sssay ze sssame, but..." the vampire trailed off, smiling wickedly.

Garulf growled and began to rise, but the two elite vampires drew their long daggers and stepped in front of Vrayon. With another crack and red flash, the four vampires vanished.

"You will allow him to insult me so, my lord?" Garulf snarled at Mornië.

The Drow shrugged. "He was only teasing, I am sure."

The lychen sat back with a huff, red eyes flashing.

Mornië turned now to Grishnákh. "Is there news from the Misty Mountains? Have thy troops made any significant progress?"

"No, my lord," the orc rumbled. "The most recent scout claims to have seen a pile of bodies on the slopes last night. He says their wounds were cauterized."

Mornië narrowed his eyes and stroked his black goatee. "This is not good. Those damned Noldor, no doubt. I would not expect any further contact from thy men in Moria."

"I do not, sir. They sacrificed their lives for the Remnant, as was their duty," Grishnákh said coldly. "I do not mourn for them."

Mornië stood suddenly, "This concludes our meeting. Good work, all of thee. I feel victory on the horizon. Turdú, Dilotè; get my Night Crystal as soon as possible. We meet in the Dead Marshes in three days time." The Remnant Commander waved his hand. "Dismissed. May the night be at thy side."

As the sun set over Lorien, Gandalf rose slowly from the chair on which he had sat chatting with Mordae and Celebdraug but a night before. The wizard's complexion was white as his robes with worry, and there were glistening lines down his weathered face where stray tears had escaped his dark eyes.

He could barely even fathom what had occurred. A balrog...he would have never guessed that he would encounter one of the fell creatures again. Much less his protégés...

Gandalf sat down again as his mind reeled. To imagine what would become of Middle Earth if the Udunaedos were slain was beyond what he even dared dream. True, they were but two warriors, but they fought like five hundred, and were an incredible morale booster. They had slain millions of evil beings, of that Gandalf was sure. To die alone in the darkness of Moria, their bodies never to be recovered was exceedingly unfitting.

If they were dead, the wizard knew, those left would fall to the Remnant within the month. But that was not all that troubled Gandalf. Mordae and Celebdraug had long ceased to be his students, becoming more like his son and daughter. The wizard ached with the pain a father felt when his children hurt. He must know if they still lived, for some closure to this nightmare.

For this reason, Gandalf forced himself to stand and walk up the stairway to the tower where the palantír sat, its cold, void face seeming to mock the empty feeling inside him. Casting his hesitation aside, the wizard reached a trembling hand to the orb and let his mind search, seeking his children.

The harsh landscape of the Misty Mountains whirled past him, reminding him of his own duel with a demon, bringing back the terror and the horrible realization that even he, with his powers, had fallen to the beast. The darkness of Moria engulfed his mind, and in his heart, Gandalf relived each moment of dread from his last experience in the mine.

He reached the cavern where the Udunaedos had been, the charred black rocks laughing at his pain in their coldness, reminding the wizard of gravestones over the tombs of forgotten heroes.

Then, suddenly, there was a light. Four lights, to be exact. Glowing orbs of red and yellow that flickered as the sound of muted laughter flowed in a glorious melody into Gandalf's ears.

Children! Gandalf cried, his view rushing to the elves' side. They lay propped up against a rock, slouched nearly to the point of lying down.

Gandy! they shrieked in unison.

Tears of joy slid down Gandalf's cheeks as he mentally embraced the two. You two had me very worried, he said. Never do that again. 

Mordae groaned, I don't plan to. 

Celebdraug smiled weakly. To hear you complain, you would think killing balrogs was a hard thing. I would do it as a warm up every day, if I could find enough of them. 

A huge grin broke over Gandalf's face, Are you two all right? 

Mordae sat up on his elbows with great difficulty, and then beamed at the wizard's image. This is about as far as I'm going, for now. 

Gandalf felt a pang in his chest at the elves' predicament, but he knew they had suffered through terrible injuries many times before and were no less of fighters because of it.

Yeah, Celebdraug agreed with Gandalf's internal thinking, I've had my neck broken, for crying out loud. And we've both been hit over the head countless times with random heavy objects. And look at us. 

Which is why I'm worried, Gandalf responded with a smile.

Hey! Mordae cried, dropping lightly back against the rock.

Gandalf shook his head slightly. I will leave you now, children. I must tell the others of your good fortune. They may want to speak with you, of course. 

No visitors, Celebdraug insisted.

But the Venyarohirrim girl is dying to speak to you. She practically worships you. 

Mordae rolled his eyes. Fans. Can't get enough of me. 

Celebdraug jabbed his shoulder lightly. They really like me, you know. 

Gandalf's smile grew broader, and with a flash, his image disappeared.

Dilotè and Turdú stood at the General's doorway as she prepared to leave.

_"I enjoyed this night very much, Turdú. I hope we can do this again sometime soon," _Dilotè said with a small smile.

Turdú smiled nervously back, _"I would love to. Rest well, we leave for Mirkwood tomorrow."_

Dilotè nodded, _"Nidanostre, Turdú."_

_"Nidanostre."_

As the maiden turned to leave, the flickering image of Maneva Mornië appeared in the center of Turdú's living room, his expression dark as his skin.

Turdú raised his eyebrows and exhaled slowly, and Dilotè giggled as she turned away.

The General turned and strode to the image, saluting his commander.

"General Turdú," Mornië growled. "Was that elvish I heard uttered?"

"Yes, sir," Turdú answered almost defiantly. "We were on personal business, sir. I assumed that the laws did not apply."

Mornië raised one eyebrow in question. "Personal business?"

"Yes, sir."

The Commander clenched his fist. "I forbid thee to become involved with that...infidel."

"Infidel?" Turdú growled.

"She is not a Drow. She is Halda'ohtar. Lesser."

"She is far better than most Drow I know," Turdú hissed.

"**She is not!" **Mornië thundered, calling on his mage powers. **"Thou are not to associate any further than required with that woman! I keep her alive only until the rest of her infidel people join our cause. Then, I will end her pathetic existence! And you...shall...not...stand in my way!!"**

Turdú dropped to one knee, his face bowed. "Yes, sir," the Drow whispered.

Mornië's image flickered, and then with a crack, vanished.

Turdú rose slowly, shakily, to his feet and turned toward the direction Dilotè had left.

He jumped in surprise and horror at the figure that leaned against the frame, sword drawn.

_"Dilotè!" _he said quickly, stumbling over his words, _"I can explain..."_

The girl shook her head sadly, slashed her sword through the Remnant flag that hung over Turdú's doorway, then turned and sprinted off into the night toward her quarters, where she collapsed on her cot, tears streaming down her face.

Turdú sank to his knees, held his face in his hands, and wondered what sort of mess he had gotten himself into this time.


	29. Chapter XXVIII: Sarcasm in the Dark

_**Chapter XXIIX: Sarcasm in the Dark**_

In the darkness of Moria, the two Noldor lay, beaten, bloodied, but happy, chattering to pass the time until they healed. Being elves, their bodies would heal much more quickly than humans, but the extent of their injuries forced them to stay immobile for the time being.

"_Man, I need a drink," _Mordae groaned from his position beside Celebdraug against the hulk of the boulder they lay upon.

_"Sorry,"_ his cousin replied, _"Fresh out of ale, come back tomorrow."_

_"Darn."_

_"Besides," _Celebdraug continued, _"It's not like you need to drink; you're messed up enough already."_

_"Am not," _Mordae huffed indignantly.

_"Are, too."_

_"Do you dare insult me?" _Mordae cried playfully.

_"Nay. I do not dare insult you. I spit upon you instead!" _Celebdraug answered, making a feeble attempt to spit on Mordae from where she lay. Her projectile fell far short of him, and he let out a small laugh.

_"A hobbit spits better than you!" _the warrior mocked.

_"A hobbit looks better than you!" _Celebdraug countered. She lowered her voice and spoke with the accent of the Corsairs, pirate mercenaries of the south, long slain by the Drow. "Argh! I gully ye, scurvy dog!"

"I gully yer mother!" Mordae cried, lifting a small, pointed rock from the ground.

Celebdraug drew a throwing knife from her burned cloak, and the two battled for a moment from where they lay.

_"Taste my mìthril, you orc lover!" _Celebdraug cried, batting the rock out of Mordae's hand and slashing over his throat.

Her cousin clutched his neck with a mock cry of pain, then collapsed, lying still upon the boulder.

There was silence for a moment, until Celebdraug began singing a Numenorian funeral dirge, terribly off key, with some of the words wrong.

Mordae smiled and joined her, doing his best to add a dissonant harmony. The cacophony of sound lasted until both the elves grew tired of it, at which point Mordae launched into a twisted version of a song he had heard the hobbits sing in the Prancing Pony hundreds of years ago.

'_There is an inn, a trashy old in;_

_Beneath the Man in the Moon;_

_The men and stinky hobbitses come; _

_Have you ever seen a group so dumb?_

_So I blew them all to Udun.'_

_Take it, Celebdraug!"_

'_The ostler has a tipsy cat;_

_And what the blazes is an ostler?_

_And why did the stupid cat get drunk?_

_He must've looked in your mother's trunk;_

_And nothing rhymes with ostler.'_

_Mordae!"_

'_There are fourteen verses to this song;_

_And I'm not gonna sing 'em;_

_I don't care what they may say;_

_Legolas and Gimli were gay;_

_Someone should've shot them!'_

"_Someone should have shot them!"_

The two elves finished the song together, in a clashing harmony, then collapsed in tears, exploding with laughter.

_"I bet Bilbo is rolling in his grave," _Mordae said through breaths as they calmed.

_"Good," _Celebdraug replied, _"I wasted a good arrow on him."_

At this, the cousins' calm shattered into hysterics for several more minutes.

_"Man, remember when Aragorn would do this with us?" _Celebdraug asked once the two had ceased their laughter.

_"Yeah, before Arwen," _Mordae muttered nostalgically.

_"Arwen," _Celebdraug repeated in an irritatingly high voice. _"I don't know what he ever saw in her. I'd love to see Arwen take down a balrog."_

_"Oh, so he should have married you?"_

A tongue of flame shot form Celebdraug's hand in Mordae's direction, but did not reach far enough to harm him, even if it was capable of doing so.

_"Ew," _the maiden spat, _"No way. But still...Arwen?"_

_"I know!" _Mordae agreed._ "I doubt she could fight her way out of a hobbit pillow fight."_

Celebdraug sighed. _"Pillow fights."_

_"How come nobody does those with us anymore?" _Mordae whined.

_"I think it's because the last one we had, you knocked Gandalf out and I broke Aragorn's nose."_

_"Ah, yes. Should've broken Gandy's nose. Wouldn't have made a bloody difference," _Mordae quipped.

Celebdraug cackled evilly. There was a pause, then, Celebdraug sat up slightly. _"Hey, you want to hear a riddle?"_

_"Sure, why not."_

_"What goes on forever, not dying when it should, not living when it could, and wants to rule everything?"_

Mordae shook his head slightly. _"I haven't a clue."_

_"Galadriel!"_

Laughter again consumed the elves, and when they finally stopped, Celebdraug spoke again. _"I'm exhausted. What do you say we get some sleep and then blow this joint."_

"Yeah, all this healing is taking a toll on me," Mordae conceded drowsily. "Plus, I'm getting sick of this pit. Nidanostre."

"Nidanostre. Meltye1."

"Meltye."

Gandalf raced into the large room in the Udunaedos' house where Glorfindel, Niphredil, Athfaë, and Dacil sat.

"They survived!" the wizard shouted. "Mordae and Celebdraug are alive!"

The others leaped up from their seats, joy evident on their faces.

"This is wonderful news!" Niphredil cried, her face glowing with happiness.

Athfaë raised an eyebrow, "Well, somebody is happy."

Niphredil turned to face the girl. "If Mordae and Celebdraug were to be killed, not only would I lose two of my best friends, but we would all lose any hope of surviving this war."

The Venyarohirrim maiden raised her hands defensively, "Alright, alright. You make a point. Go ahead and party."

Niphredil's grin broadened, "I think I will." She took hold of Glorfindel's arm and began to head for the door. "Come, let's go tell Aragorn and Arwen."

Glorfindel looked over his shoulder at Gandalf and shrugged with a contented smile.

Gandalf nodded with a grin of his own, then, turned to Dacil and Athfaë. "Now you will have your chance to speak with the Noldor. Meet me tomorrow at sunset, and all will be revealed to you."

Nearly a full day later, Mordae drew his mask from over his eyes, totally refreshed, to find Celebdraug's blazing red pupils staring into his own, only inches away.

"Rac!" he screamed, rolling to the side and drawing a dagger from his charred belt before he came to his senses.

"You," the warrior growled, waving his blade menacingly, "You are going to die."

Celebdraug gazed at him sorrowfully, her eyes wide, lips putting slightly.

"Not the face," Mordae gasped. "No. Bad."

"Precious..." Celebdraug whispered forlornly, not breaking her stare from her cousin.

He whirled away. "Damn you." After sheathing his knife, he spun back. "You cheats."

"I know," Celebdraug said brightly, breaking into a happy grin. "Come on. We leaves this stinking mine, now."

"Yes," Mordae agreed, "Leave now, and never come back."

1 Love-you (family member)


	30. Chapter XXIX: Crazy Bloodsuckers

SurChapter XXIX: Crazy Bloodsuckers 

Vrayon, Smynoc, and the two elites appeared with a flash in the vampire General's quarters is Dol Sereg, capitol of the vampire country, moments after they had left Baradu.

The two elites moved to the door and stood at attention, swords drawn and at the ready. Vrayon turned slowly to Smynoc, fiddling with his crimson cloak as he did so.

"Vat is happening?" the General hissed.

"Ve found ze dwarvesss, sssir," Smynoc said incredulously. "Vat do you mean?"

"You and I both know zat you could have obliterated zem vithout my asssissstanssse."

The Captain sighed, "It eez ze Tvhesta, sssir."

Vrayon slammed his fist into a nearby pillar, cracking the wood and causing Smynoc to jump slightly.

The Tvhesta, or True-Bloods, as it would translate to Common Speech, was a militia force of vampires who felt tat the alliance with the Drow and lychens was unforgivable treason. They continuously ambushed visitors from the Remnant and sabotaged infantry barracks inside Ramgost, Remnant vampire territory, as well as performing acts of terror in Lycha.

Vrayon looked almost curiously at the splinters embedded in his fist, then, moved his gaze back to Smynoc. "Vat about zem?"

"Lynza hasss delivered a demand."

Lynza, the official leader of the Tvhesta, had once been Captain of the vampire forces, and her skill and prowess were renown throughout Ramgost.

"Show it to me," Vrayon hissed softly.

Smynoc drew a long, black arrow with a note wrapped around the shaft from his cloak.

"Ve found zisss in vone of our lieutenantsss," the Captain muttered.

Vrayon jerked it from the captain's hand, ripping the note off with the violence he wished he could employ on Lynza.

He read the note aloud.

"This is your final warning, scum. You will bring me every piece of information taken in Remnant meetings, access to your armories, and a vow never to attack our forces again, or I will go public and openly attack the Drow. Meet me in the southernmost barracks in Lvrast tonight, alone, or face the wrath of the Tvhesta."

"Empty threatsss!" Smynoc snarled.

Vrayon, however, slowly lowered the note. "Ve vill go and meet her zere, ze four of usss."

"She vill kill you!"

"I fear her not," the General spat.

"Eez zat vize?"

Vrayon's piercing black eyes bored holes through his captain.

"Sss...sssorry sssir," Smynoc stammered. "You are right. My apologiesss."

The General scoffed, then, changed the subject. "Ze dwarvesss, you did find zem, no?"

"Yesss, sssir."

"Exsssellent. Ve ssstrike tomorrow night. Ve vill not ssstop ze offensssive until zey are all dead, and ze ring isss oursss. In ze meantime," Vrayon pointed to his tactical map, "Ten leaguesss from Mount Gundabad. Tell ze troopsss to get a lot of ressst, ve vill be fighting a long time."

"Yesss, sssir. Ze dwarvesss lie about twenty leaguesss eassst of zere."

"Not for long," Vrayon quipped with a fanged smile.

Smynoc smiled, revealing his own dagger-like teeth, then straightened. "Permission to depart, sssir?"

The General nodded, and with a flutter of red, the Captain and elites marched purposely from the room.

Vrayon spun on his heel and dragged himself through the balcony overlooking everything from the giant fang-shaped tower. He stared out over the barren wasteland that constituted most of Ramgost for a long while.

"Lynza, vat are you up to now?"

The two Noldor made their way back to the gate, albeit slowly, due to their newly recovered injuries. Upon their arrival at the pile of rocks that comprised the entrance, Mordae and Celebdraug replaced one another's bandages with fresh ones.

"_Thank Illúvatar for_ _quick healing," _Mordae commented as he and his cousin donned their mail and white cloaks.

"_Amen,"_ Celebdraug agreed. Slinging her sword over her shoulder, she scrambled over the rubble and stepped into daylight for the fist time in two days.

"_Gah!"_ she shrieked, diving back into the mine, _"No light!"_

Mordae, who was immune to bright lights, thanks to his mage powers, drew a deep breath of fresh air, then doubled over, gagging.

"_What in Udun?"_ he coughed.

Celebdraug squinted her eyes open slightly. _"Ugh. Look,"_ she groaned, pointing toward the pond.

_"Lovely."_

On the shore of the lake sprawled the rotting carcass of the many-armed creature Celebdraug had slain earlier.

"_What are we going to do about that?" _she asked.

"_We have to do something?"_

"_If we don't want to attract every orc in Middle Earth!" _Celebdraug cried.

Mordae shrugged, raised his hand, and fired a bolt of light into the corpse, partially destroying a hefty piece of it. Before he could fire again, a jet of flame rocketed from Celebdraug's hand, creating a smelly, raging inferno.

"_Nice," _Mordae sighed, his eyes following the billowing, rancid smoke that rose into the air. _"That won't attract anything."_

"_Shut up. So, where to now?"_

"_You know what?" _Mordae said, fingering the hilt of his dagger, _"I feel like a drink. What do you say we see if the vampires haven't already razed Bree?"_

"_And if they haven't?"_ Celebdraug asked, her eyes beginning to swirl.

"_We drink. Restock. Get some rest. Then, do it for them."_

Sharbolg, orc captain of the Remnant, marched his two hundred soldiers southeast, toward the city of Bree, where he planned to camp before moving onto the final leg of his journey to Moria. The Remnant brass had ordered him to locate two elves and either capture or kill them. Sharbolg knew that his one hundred-to-one ratio was a bit of an overkill, but the orcs were never ones for subtlety.

The Captain glanced up at the moon as he ran through the forest, recalling the many orc legends of the entity's conception. The fable most prominent in his mind at the moment was that the moon was the eye of the greatest orc general in history, always keeping watch over his successors and ensuring them victory.

Sharbolg smiled grimly at the thought. The Remnant needed no ancient general guardian; Mornië brought them strength beyond measure.

His smile faded suddenly as the moon began to darken, changing its tone to a ruddy hue. The color deepened, becoming red as blood, as all the stars vanished behind a cloud of darkness so thick that even the orc's eyes could not penetrate. A black mist began to swirl up from the ground, reducing the creatures' line of sight to almost nil.

Sharbolg began to panic, as did his men.

"Hold your ground!" he bellowed. "Form ranks! Hold the perimeter!"

His orders were drowned out by an ear-piercing shriek that swept through his men like a tidal wave, causing them to break their lines and scatter in terror. There was a deafening crack, then the clash of blades on armor and the screams of the orcs.

Sharbolg let out a roar of rage and spun, sword raised, but he could not make out any attackers in the smothering blackness. Suddenly, there were two more cracks behind him, and the sound of metal clearing leather.

The orc Captain whirled about, just in time to see the head of the elite soldier before him explode in a spray of black blood as several long blades drove through it.

The body fell, revealing a tall, black-cloaked creature wearing a pair of gloves from which three blades protruded. The blades on his right hand glistened with the dead orc's blood, and the being's eyes shone black as the night around them.

The creature hissed, saluted, and executed a graceful back-flip over the orcs behind him, disappearing in the darkness.

Sharbolg began to advance, but stopped as his eyes fell on the second attacker, who stood defiantly before him.

She was small in comparison to the orc, less than two meters tall, with black hair halfway down her back, pointed ears, and glistening black eyes that promised death to all she set her gaze upon. She wore black chain mail, with a matching black blouse, cape, and pants, all with crimson coloring sewn sporadically into it, as if spattered blood covered her. In her hand, the girl held a two-meter long silver staff with long, curved blades on both ends.

Sharbolg growled a challenge, and the girl hissed in response, revealing gleaming white fangs. A vampire. Sharbolg paused for a moment, confused; the vampires were the allies of the Remnant, or so he had gathered. The orc pushed the doubt from his mind and swung hard at her, using all of his strength, intending to shatter her wiry frame with a single blow.

The vampire responded by plunging one end of her bladed staff into the ground and using it to vault over the Captain's head. Before he could turn, Sharbolg felt cold mìthril slash across the back of his leg, dropping him to one knee.

The orc defiantly continued his spin, swinging his own weapon, but the second blade ripped through his upper arm, causing him to completely lose his grip on the sword, which spun off into the darkness.

The vampire hissed, spun her staff, then stepped closer and lacerated Sharbolg's chest, neck, and finally face, in rapid succession. She let his body fall, and with a slight smile, leaped over him to land in a circle of orcs. With two twirls of her staff, she sent eight of the snarling beasts collapsing to the ground, black blood spraying into the air around them.

The girl, Lynza, former Captain of the vampires and current leader of the Tvhesta, let her gaze travel in a slow circle. All around her, vampires felled orcs like trees, sending the vile creatures into utter chaos.

She knew she shouldn't, but she had to; Lynza threw back her head to the darkened heavens and let out an evil, almost psychotic, cackle.

"Do you sssee me? Do you sssee your troopsss, Mornië? You ssscum! Ve vill never bow to you! You shall bow to usss! You shall bow to ze true qveen, ze Qveen of Darknesss!"


	31. Chapter XXX: Sober and Disorderly

Chapter XXX: Sober and Disorderly 

Bree. An ancient town, never known for housing the finest, the smartest, or the most refined men ever to set foot on Middle Earth. It was known, however, for having the best tavern west of the Misty Mountains. The Prancing Pony. A favorite haunt of many unsung heroes of old that wished simply to disappear, the town had fallen into disrepair. The fact that the entire surviving non-Remnant population of the northwest was now holed up in Bree, doing their best to repel the weekly vampire attacks, did nothing for the town, other than make it even more crowded.

The gates, once naught but a wall of thin wood used more for decoration, had been replaced with a sturdy granite wall that encircled the whole town. The ramparts stood five meters high; enough to deter any orcs or vampires on foot, with archers trained specifically to shoot bats out of the sky encircled all around atop the fortress.

Not enough, however, to stop the two black figures that hurdled the fortification with ease as the moon was obscured by a cloud late at night.

Mordae and Celebdraug landed lightly atop the parapet, rolled, and dropped to their feet on the ground behind the gate. The elves moved so swiftly and silently that the string of guards were completely unaware of their coming. Drawing the hoods on their black robes over their heads to obscure their faces, the two hurriedly made their way through the dingy streets into the center of the town.

They received a few side-glances from passers-by, but long time residents of Bree had long ago learned that one did not question if one did not enjoy having daggers plunged in one's side.

As the two turned into an alley behind the Prancing Pony, four cloaked figures slid into step behind them. The new arrivals matched the elves' pace with some difficulty, due to the Noldor's naturally long strides, but they did so, muttering quietly to one another.

As the group neared the center of the alley, three more cloaked men materialized and approached from the front, slowly tightening a noose around the two. The man in the center of the new group was enormous, slightly taller than Celebdraug, and far stockier than Mordae.

At five paces, the elves stopped their advance, as did their stalkers.

"It is in thy best interest to continue going about thy business," Mordae murmured calmly, his voice soft and even.

"And wha' if our business be involvin' ye?" the large man growled.

"That would not be wise of thee," Celebdraug answered harshly.

"Eh, a fiery one," the large man chuckled, stepping forward and pulling Celebdraug's hood back, revealing her face in the dim light. "Purdy, too."

Celebdraug's hand shot out and clasped around the giant's wrist as he withdrew his hand. The man smiled and began to pull his arm back, but made no progress; the elf held him in an iron grip that even his large muscles could not break.

Still, the man laughed heartily. "The little girly thinks she's a tough one, eh? I migh' jus' hafta smack 'er 'round a bit before we play. Wha's 'er big bad boyfriend gonna do 'bout that?"

"Laugh."

Celebdraug whirled her free arm in a circle and thrust it up under the giant's elbow, breaking his arm, then drove into her attacker's chest with a triple strike combination that was almost instantaneous, hurling him backward several meters onto his haunches. Before the rest of his men could respond, she launched herself into the air, landing beside him. She drove her fist into his face, leveling him, then turned, hands raised in a fighting stance.

There was the sound of metal clearing leather behind Mordae as one of the men drew a dagger and thrust it at the elf's back. Mordae spun, parried the attack, and kicked his assailant's knee, dropping him to the ground. With a small hop, the elf spun in a full circle, connecting with his heel on the man's head at the end of his rotation, sending him sprawling.

One of the men from the front turned and raced toward Celebdraug, who dispatched him with a swift sidekick to the face as he charged. The other, seeing his comrade's fate, bolted for the side of the alley and began scrambling up the wall. Celebdraug leaped into the air and grabbed the man's legs, hauling him to the ground, where she struck him with a flat fist, sending him into the same blackness as his friends.

The other three men all pounced on Mordae at the same time - one on each side, and one on his back - wrapping their arms around his neck and body, trying to drag him down. With two vicious elbow strikes, the elf dropped the men to his sides. Mordae dropped and rolled on his shoulder, momentarily crushing the man clinging to his back, causing him to loosen his hold. A quick jerk of his right shoulder, and the Noldor sent the final gangster careening into the wall, which he hit with a crunch, then slid to the ground, unconscious as the rest.

Celebdraug strode to the side of the big man and kicked him forcefully in the side.

Mordae laughed and stepped spryly to his cousin's side. He took hold of her arm and began leading her from the alley.

Celebdraug looked up at the other warrior and smiled. _"I love this town."_

Glorfindel and Niphredil sat on one of the elven couches across from Aragorn and Arwen in the former king's Lorien home. The four had been good friends for nearly two centuries; Glorfindel had known Aragorn and Arwen since they were children, and he and Niphredil had grown up together in the Second Age.

_"Did you hear what happened to Mordae and Celebdraug?" _Niphredil asked, taking a sip of the elven tea on the small table before the group.

Aragorn nodded slightly. _"I heard that they had run into complications in Moria from Gandalf a few hours ago, but nothing more."_

_"Complications?" _Glorfindel snorted. _"Complications is an orc army, which, by the way, they did find, and kill. What they ran into was far more than complications. A balrog."_

Aragorn swallowed, and Arwen turned pale.

_"A balrog?" _the elf queen asked incredulously. _"Are you sure?"_

_"Well," _Glorfindel said with a shrug, _"I suppose it could have been a huge, flaming, orc."_

Aragorn let out a deep breath. _"Any word on them?"_

Niphredil nodded emphatically. _"They killed it."_

Aragorn's mouth dropped open. _"Killed it?"_

_"Killed it."_

Arwen shrugged. _"They are good warriors. And Gandalf killed one. I suppose it would not be difficult for them."_

Niphredil shook her head in a bemused fashion. _"Gandalf died fighting a balrog. And so have many other elf heroes in the past."_

Arwen tossed her long brown hair back behind her ears in exasperation. _"Forgive me. I am not one for fighting, and I do not know how difficult even killing an orc could be."_

_"Nor would I," _Niphredil said with a shrug.

Aragorn shrugged as well. _"Nor I."_

Arwen punched him lightly on the shoulder.

_"What, I don't! It isn't difficult at all!"_

_"Look at me," _Glorfindel mocked, _"I'm King Master-Fighter-of-Eä__1__."_

_"Not quite," _Aragorn said, deadpan._ "But definite close."_

The others laughed heartily.

_"It was a close call, though." _Niphredil commented.

The others cast confused glances at her.

_"What?" _Glorfindel finally asked.

_"Mordae and Celebdraug."_

_"Um, dear. We've moved on from that."_

_"Well," _Niphredil pouted, _"I haven't."_

Glorfindel held up his hands in surrender.

_"Thank you," _Niphredil said with a smile._ "Do you realize what a near miss we all had?"_

_"What do you mean?" _Arwen asked.

_"If Mordae and Celebdraug were to be killed," _Niphredil explained._ "All we would have to defend us would be Glorfindel and King Master-Fighter."_

_"We'd be unbelievably screwed," _Glorfindel concluded.

_"To put it classily," _Arwen said with a mocking smile.

_"He's right, though," _Aragorn pointed out.

_"But," _Glorfindel countered, _"No matter how excellent or poor fighters we are, Mordae and Celebdraug are gone at the moment. And time runs thin for us. We need to strike somebody, somewhere, soon."_

_"Thank you, Captain Vague," _Niphredil said teasingly.

_"He's right again, though," _Aragorn noted._ "Wow. Two in one day, I'm impressed, Glorfindel."_

_"Thank you, sir," _the elf warrior said sarcastically.

_"You're welcome. I have thought of that, and I was preparing to send a small attack force through Isen Meares to attack Belgorian outposts. Just to annoy them enough to come here."_

_"Here?" _Niphredil cried.

_"You can't bring them here!" _Arwen agreed.

_"Yes, we can," _Aragorn argued._ "And we should. Lorien is far stronger defended than any fortress we build outside of elven territory."_

_"We no longer have Galadriel's Belt2," _Arwen remarked.

_"True. But I think we can still manage. You may have to learn to fight, though," _the king said with a joking smile.

_"Then we're definitely screwed," _the normally very proper and refined Niphredil sighed.

The others roared in laughter.

_"Come, let's change the subject," _Arwen ordered. _"All this war talk worries me."_

Mordae and Celebdraug entered the Prancing Pony with their hoods still drawn up over their heads. They received a few glances again, but nobody rose to greet - or attack - them.

They strode to the bar and stood, waiting for the bartender to come to them. Barliman Butterbur, the bartender for the last seventy years, waddled over to them, looking older, but still just as sprightly.

"What kin I do for ye?" he asked pleasantly, not the least bit unnerved by the shady figure of the new arrivals. "And ye'll need ta leave yer swords with me. Jus' so ye don't git any ideas 'bout skewering any of my customers."

The two elves glanced at one another, faces completely hidden to the man, then with a quick motion, unclasped their swords and presented them, hilt first, to Butterbur, who jumped slightly, then regained his composure.

"Thank ye. Now, what kin I git for ye?"

"Dost thou still brew elven ale?" Mordae inquired.

Elven ale, as men called it, contained no alcohol, though it tended to make humans a bit tipsy.

"Elven ale? I haven't been asked 'bout that for 'alf a cent'ry! But I think I kin whip some up for ye."

"Thank thee."

"Thee, eh? Interesting accent. Where ye be from?"

The elves glanced at one another again. Celebdraug shrugged, then spoke. "We hail from Valinor, grew up in Gondolin and Lorien. But our accents are Numenorian, that is where we learned Common Tongue."

Butterbur's eyes grew large. "Celey? Mordae?" he squeaked.

Mordae spun, his glance sweeping over all the patrons nearby, and Celebdraug leaned in closely to the bartender.

"Yes," the elf maid whispered, "But if we are discovered, it could mean death for all of us. We will take our table in the back, and if any inquire about us, just tell them that we are Rangers."

"Isn't that one gettin' a bit old?"

Celebdraug sighed. "Just do it, please."

"Alrigh', alrigh'. I'll have yer ale for ye in a few minutes. I'll bring it back."

"Thank thee." Celebdraug turned and gave Mordae's elbow a slight tug. Her cousin broke his icy gaze from the nearby customers and followed her into the back.

One of the men glanced up at Butterbur and raised his eyebrows.

"Rangers."

1 All that was created, the Universe

2 The shield of magic energy placed around Lorien by Galadriel to prevent any intruders from entering


	32. Chapter XXXI: Several Meetings

_**Chapter XXXI: Several Meetings**_

Turdú gazed blearily out the window of his barracks at the rising moon. He had spent the whole day either moping around in his home or marching angrily up and down the ranks of the drilling troops yelling orders to nobody in particular.

He had yet to catch a glimpse of his captain, but he had heard gossip from the other Drow that something had occurred and that Dilotè had only been seen briefly that morning. He had been attempting to track her for a short time before finally giving up in frustration; she had covered far too well.

But now, as he stepped outside at the time he had appointed for his troops to begin the journey north, he found Dilotè seated on her black mare in her usual place in the front of the assembly.

He saluted and smiled weakly at her as he approached on his stallion; she responded only with a curt salute, and continued to stare straight ahead, as if she could not even see him.

"Captain, thou art fit for duty?"

She nodded tersely.

"No blades in the back while I am not paying attention?" the General asked with another weak smile.

A faint light flickered in her eyes, as if the idea appealed to her, but she shook her head once and resumed her stare.

Turdú looked at his First Lieutenant, Serke'turr, and shrugged. The other Drow shook his head slightly and returned the shrug.

"All right, then," Turdú said resignedly. He turned to the assembled Remnant troops - mostly Drow, but with a good-sized horde of orcs and lychens, with a few vampire reserves – and shouted out.

"Come! We ride north!"

The massive army thundered off behind their General onto a path of death and destruction that would rake its bloodstained trail northward through Isen Meares and into Mirkwood, leaving behind no survivors to tell tales of the horror the townsfolk would face.

"Yer drinks," Butterbur said with a great flair, plopping two ales down on the table at which Mordae and Celebdraug sat, hoods still drawn over their faces, not speaking. The elves nodded, and Mordae slid an amount of currency enough for Butterbur to retire on into the bartender's hand.

The large man raised his eyebrows, but did not question. Mordae pulled him closer.

"This is in advance for any damage we cause."

"Wha' in blazes are ye talkin' about?"

At that moment, the seven men from the back alley burst into the bar, eyes burning with fury.

"Where're the little rats?!" the large man, who stood in front of the group, screamed.

His nose was obviously broken, bent off to one side, and blood was smeared all across his face. The rest of his men looked no better; most were bleeding, a few limped or held limbs at odd angles. All of them had murder clearly written on their faces.

Butterbur scurried behind the bar table. "Who? Ye best be takin' yer men and leavin' here, Greymous."

Greymous, apparently the name of the large gang leader, stormed across the tavern, which now sat in silence, and grabbed Butterbur by his collar, lifting him up and over the counter.

"Ye list'n ter me!" he thundered. "Ye've messed 'round wit' my business fer the las' time!"

"Drop him," a calm alto voice rang out.

Greymous turned slowly, dropping Butterbur onto his haunches. Celebdraug and Mordae stood in the center of the tavern, faces still hidden.

"I thought I'd find ye here," the giant muttered, signaling to his men, who formed a half-circle around the elves.

"Dost thou really wish to fight again?" Mordae asked. "We beat thee soundly in the last bout."

"Ye won't this time."

Before the elf could respond, the door burst open again. Two more cloaked figures, practically identical to Mordae and Celebdraug, stood in the entryway. Both of them held bladed staves in their hand, and they both looked somewhat rattled.

The smallest of the new arrivals looked up at the combatants, shook her head, and pushed through the center of the half-circle.

The hood slipped off as she wormed her way through, revealing a pale, black blood-streaked face and dark tussled hair.

Greymous stepped ominously toward her, but he stopped short as the taller figure whipped one of the blades on his staff around to the giant's neck.

"Look," the girl, Lynza, hissed. "I have no clue vat you foolsss are up to here, but ve all need to get out. Now. Zer isss a masssive Remnant forssse approaching Bree asss ve speak. Zey vill arrive here in lesss zan ten minutesss, ve essstimate."

Panic took hold of the tavern as men rose up, drawing swords and daggers left and right. Greymous took advantage of the delay to push the staff from his neck and leap toward Celebdraug, who kicked the giant in the stomach, knocking him backwards into the other vampire, Draylen, Lynza's captain. Draylen let his staff spin in the direction Greymous had shoved it, then stepped forward, plunging it through the giant's chest. The man let out a gasp, then collapsed on the floor, where Celebdraug finished him with a slice across the throat with her dagger.

Draylen took a slight step forward as Lynza attempted to calm the patrons and held out his fist toward Celebdraug, pulling back his hood with his other hand. He had an angular face, but not too sharp, with black and blonde streaked hair. He winked one of his black eyes at Celebdraug as she punched his fist lightly.

"Pleasssure vorking vith you," he whispered with a charming fanged smile.

Celebdraug smiled as well and began to draw her hood back, but stopped as Mordae's icy glare shot to her.

What? she whined.

Mordae sighed audibly, then turned his stare back to the other six men that surrounded them. One of them feinted forward at the elf, which lashed out with a hidden dagger, slicing the man's chest open.

"Sssit down, all of you!" Lynza screamed.

All in the tavern ceased movement at her command, save the body of the gangster falling atop his leader with a muffled thump.

The vampire girl spun to Draylen and growled a few angry words in their strange language, causing him to roll his eyes and lower his blood-dripping staff. She then turned to the elves.

_"Seeing as you two appear to be the only half-sane beings left in this town, I need you to get all of these people out of the city," _she hissed in broken and badly pronounced elvish.

_"You speak elvish?" _Celebdraug asked incredulously.

_"No, you just think I do. Now, can you get these people out of here?"_

Mordae responded by holding up his hand and using his mind to rip his sword from Butterbur's holding closet, which it punched through with a crash, scattering fragments of the door all across the room. The blade whirled to the elf, then stopped just before him, resting its handle in his hand. Swinging the weapon in a graceful arc, the elf placed the tip on Lynza's throat.

_"I don't care how sane you say we are, we will do nothing you tell us to," _he growled.

_"Mordae!" _Celebdraug cried in exasperation. She looked over Lynza's head at Draylen, who, remarkably, had not moved to protect his Commander; he leaned casually against a bar stool, idly running his hand up and down the shaft of his staff.

_"No, no, it is quite alright," _Lynza dismissed Celebdraug's outburst with a slight wave of her hand. _"I would worry if you did not question my loyalties. I assure you that I am not part of the Remnant, and that I would never betray you to them."_

_"And my blade will assure that you never live to betray another soul again," _Mordae snarled.

_"Cranky little brat, aren't you?" _Draylen murmured to no one in particular.

Celebdraug nodded in agreement and put her hand on the flat of her cousin's blade.

We can trust them. she assured him.

Why? Because you think the smart-mouth in the back is cute? 

Yes. And because they wear no Remnant colors or signs anywhere. Mornië insists that all his troops must. 

Mordae paused at this, and his blade wavered a bit. His gaze swept back to Lynza.

_"And how do you know we are not Mornië's mercenaries?"_

_"Because everyone knows you aren't. No High-Elf would ever lower itself to be in that scumbag's service."_ The vampire spat convincingly at the thought of being a Remnant soldier.

Mordae raised his eyebrows and lowered his sword.

_"Swear that you are not one of Mornië's rats."_

Lynza raised her hand and ran it along the blade of her staff, causing a black mist to flow from the laceration.

_"I swear by the blood of the vampires and by the Moon itself that I would die before serving the traitor Vrayon and his master, Mornië."_

Behind her, Draylen slit his own palm, waving it in intricate patterns and watching in mock fascination at the designs the mist made in the air.

Mordae glanced at Celebdraug, who nodded.

Quite convincing, she offered.

By blood and the moon, pretty sacred for a vampire, Mordae added.

With a flick of his wrist, Mordae sliced the edge of his blade across his own palm, releasing a thin stream of white blood.

_"I accept your promise, and I swear to defend your cause to whatever result, as I would a friend."_

Celebdraug followed suit.

_"There,"_ she said, pulling her hood back, _"Now we can all put our swords away and get along, right?"_

Mordae slowly sheathed his sword. _"Man, I was hoping to get to kill somebody."_

Draylen gestured toward the body of the two gangsters on the floor.

_"Yeah, but he died too easily,"_ the elf whined. _"And you killed him,"_ he added, pointing at the giant.

_"True, true," _Draylen acknowledged.

"_Look, if you want to kill somebody," _Lynza sighed, her gaze sweeping around the half-full tavern, _"Kill one of these idiots so we can all get out of here before the Remnant wastes us."_

Mordae perked up immediately, raising his hand toward the roof. There was a thunderous crack, and a bolt of light blasted a huge hole in the roof of the tavern.

**"Get out!" **the elf thundered.

Nobody argued. The tavern was emptied within a minute, the patrons racing through Bree, crying out the alarm to all the townsfolk.

Butterbur lingered at the doorway, staring melancholically into the tavern. Celebdraug moved quietly to his side and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Worry not. Thou shall return to thy town, safe and sound, I promise."

The bartender smiled. "If ye say so, Celey."

"Thou would best be leaving, if thou wants to survive," Mordae suggested.

Butterbur took a deep breath, turned, and marched away from the tavern, head held high.

Mordae smiled, strode back to the table the elves had been seated at, and picked up one of the tankards that sat upon it. He took a large swig of the drink, reveling in the taste. When he saw Lynza staring at him, he shrugged innocently.

"Hey, I paid for it."

Celebdraug smiled stepped around the vampire woman

and began speaking to Draylen.

"There is no way that the villagers can fight off this wave?" the elf asked in the Common Tongue, sensing that elvish was obviously a difficult language for the vampires to speak.

"No," Draylen answered. "Their troops are terribly trained; the Remnant have just been toying with them until now. This is the crushing blow." He spoke in a language that was part Common Tongue, part Numenorian, and part Sindarin Elvish known as Endea. It had been used during the transition in the time when the balance of power was shifting from the Northwest Numenor to the Southeast Gondor.

"You still speak Endea?" Celebdraug asked incredulously.

"You still speak Quenya?" Draylen countered.

"Good point."

"Hey, we've already found another thing we have in common! We both speak dead languages!" Draylen announced joyfully.

Celebdraug smiled, absently fingering a part of her cloak.

Mordae coughed with extreme un-subtlety, rolled his eyes, then, turned to Lynza.

"We need to get north. Can we get through the Remnant forces?"

Lynza laughed. "I think you can get through anything you wish. But with our help, definitely."

Draylen glanced up suddenly. "Hey, they can stay with us! You know, re-supply before they go and do..." he paused and looked slightly confused. "Whatever they're doing."

Lynza nodded slowly, as if pondering a great quandary.

"Yes," she said finally. "You may stay with us. But we need to move, before your wish to kill somebody becomes far more true than you wanted."


	33. Chapter XXXII: Dark Plans

Chapter XXXII: Dark Plans 

Once the elves and their newly acquired companions were a few leagues from the city, Mordae stopped running. Celebdraug slid a few meters past him, then came to a halt as well. Lynza and Draylen, who had been flying above the two, swooped down alongside them and with the familiar crack, changed into their human-like form.

"Yes?" Lynza asked in Endea, obviously the preferred language of the vampires.

"Alright," Mordae commanded in the same tongue, "Now that we're far enough from the city, you need to answer some questions."

"I would be glad to," the vampire answered with a slight nod.

"Now, I know you swear to not serve Mornië, but why should we trust that you won't kill us for your own purposes?" the elf inquired.

"You hate the Drow, no?" Lynza queried in response to his question, a small smile beginning to form on her face.

"Yes."

"You hate the Remnant, no?"

"Yes."

"You will kill the Remnant, no?"

"Yes." Mordae was beginning to sound somewhat frustrated.

"Bear with me," Lynza ordered. "The lychens are allied with the Remnant, no?"

Mordae nodded.

"Vrayon is allied with the Remnant as well."

Again, the elf nodded.

"We," Lynza gestured to herself and Draylen, "Hate the Drow, lychens, and vampires under Vrayon's command. In this instance, we are allies through common enemies. To kill you would harm our cause as well."

Mordae nodded very emphatically, a smile growing on his face; he always argued with logic, and was very impressed by the intellectual argument the vampire had placed before him.

"Very impressive, Lynza. I trust you completely, now," the warrior said with a slight bow. "Forgive me for questioning your loyalties."

Lynza nodded in acceptance.

"Well then," Celebdraug offered, "Shall we carry on?"

"Indeed." Lynza turned to Draylen and nodded.

The other vampire drew a long, silver horn from his cloak and blew a short blast on it. A moment later, a rustling sound approached swiftly from the north, growing in intensity until at last, a swarm of bats came to rest above the four on the ground.

"The rest of the Tvhesta," Draylen explained.

Lynza disappeared with a pop, joining the swirling storm of creatures above them.

Draylen raised his eyebrows, bowed slightly, and, following another cracking sound, flew in a tight circle around Celebdraug's head. She swatted at the bat, which did a quick loop and whirled up into the swarm.

The elf turned to her cousin as Draylen was lost in the horde. _"Shall we?"_

The horde swept northward, the elves following below.

Athfaë and Dacil raced hand in hand to Mordae and Celebdraug's home as the sun set over Lorien. Dacil rapped eagerly on the large golden door, bringing a smiling Gandalf to the entryway.

"Good evening," the wizard said, his eyes twinkling. He glanced at the excited Venyarohirrim's faces. "Excited, are we?"

They nodded emphatically, and Gandalf laughed.

He stepped aside, gesturing into the house. "Come."

The three made their way to the spire in which the palantír resided, where they sat around the pedestal where the orb rested.

Gandalf placed his palm on the glowing object, then nodded to the other two, indicating that they should follow his example.

Once they were all touching the palantír, Gandalf closed his eyes and began to seek the minds of the two elves, as he had done so many times before. He again glimpsed the Misty Mountains as they flashed by, but this time, the vision angled northeast, into the forests of the land once known as Arnor, now Ramgost, taken by the vampires and twisted into a land of eternal darkness.

Gandalf felt a rush of confusion, but kept his mind bent toward the palantír and discovering the elves' location. Soon, he passed through a dark cloud of bats, beneath which ran Mordae and Celebdraug.

What in Illúvatar's name are you doing? Gandalf questioned immediately.

Mae Govannen to you to. And we're doing what you told us to do, Celebdraug replied. We're going to go get the last dwarf ring. 

With a horde of vampires? 

Mordae didn't think it was such a hot idea, either, Celebdraug noted somewhat resignedly.

Why do we trust them? the wizard inquired angrily.

Nothing about them points to Mornië at all, Mordae commented. I think we may have just stumbled on a sort of hidden civilization of vampires that surfaced after the Remnant took over. 

Gandalf sighed. I suppose I'm just going to have to trust you two. Keep your eyes open. 

Always, the warriors responded simultaneously.

I have some friends that wish to speak with you, Gandalf announced, changing the subject rapidly.

Fans? Mordae asked.

The wizard laughed. You'll have to decide that for yourself. I must go; try to show a little respect to my guests, if you could. Namarie. 

With that, the wizard vanished, and his presence was replaced by that of Athfaë and Dacil.

Mae Govannen, Mordae acknowledged their arrival.

Wow, Athfaë murmured, not responding to the elf. This is amazing. 

Dacil cleared his throat. Um...May Govunnin... he muttered in a poor attempt to mimic Mordae's greeting.

The elves laughed.

Oh! Athfaë cried, as if suddenly becoming aware of the other warriors' presence. Greetings! 

Mae Govannen, Celebdraug replied. Who art thou? 

We are Venyarohirrim, my lords, Dacil explained.

No 'my lords', Mordae corrected. He paused. Venyarohirrim? As in New Edoras? 

Yes, Athfaë acknowledged. As a matter of fact, do you remember the servant girl in New Edoras? 

It has been only four days, of course we do, Celebdraug scoffed. Did she make it out? 

I am she. 

Deorwine! Celebdraug exclaimed.

Actually, Athfaë is my real name. I was part of the king's security detail. 

Who is thy friend? Mordae questioned.

I am Dacil, General of the Venyarohirrim and the Cavalry Commander of the Fellowship. 

Should thou not then declare war on thyself? Celebdraug thought out loud, slightly confused.

It's a long story, Dacil said with a slight laugh.

Oh, do tell, Mordae commanded eagerly.

In time, Athfaë halted the explanation. We have more pressing matters to discuss. 

Such as? Celebdraug sighed.

The current situation of our armies. 

Our? Mordae asked incredulously.

We have allied our forces with yours in Lorien, Dacil explained.

Ah, really? Mordae seemed intrigued. This is good news. Who commands them? Dacil? 

No, Athfaë interjected. I do. 

Wow. From security guard to Supreme Commander in four days, Mordae said in mock awe. Impressive. 

What rank do you hold? Dacil asked curiously.

General of the Noldor, Sindar, Sylvan, Numenorian, Gondorim, Rohirrim, and Dunedain; High Mage, assassin, and humble servant, Celebdraug rattled off.

Servant to whom? Mordae quipped. The last time thee was humble, Turin was in his crib. 

The last time thee was good looking, Feänor was in _his_ crib, Celebdraug retorted.

You two are certainly not what we had expected, Dacil commented.

Celebdraug laughed. Boring? 

Yes. I mean, no. I mean... the man trailed off.

The other three laughed again.

As if it matters, I hereby make you Generals of the Venyarohirrim, Athfaë said in a formal voice.

Do I get a pin? Mordae asked eagerly.

Sure. 

Yay! 

The group laughed again. I could make you honorary lieutenants in the Fellowship, Dacil offered.

Ew. Thank thee for the offer, but I fear we must decline, Celebdraug replied.

Speaking of ranks, how did you two manage to accomplish your own? Mordae inquired.

The two humans related their story to the elves for the next hour as the other warriors ran on in the forests of Old Arnor, pausing occasionally to answer a question by one of the elves.

Finally, Athfaë concluded, And here we are now, talking with the two greatest military minds in the history of Middle Earth. 

First and second greatest, Mordae corrected. But we love Celey anyway. 

The humans chuckled.

So, what is our plan of action? Athfaë questioned, her eyes brightening.

We had not given it much thought, Celebdraug responded. We were unaware we had sufficient forces to really do anything. 

We have one-thousand elves, Mordae began listing. Fifty-thousand Dunedain, one-hundred-fifty thousand Venyarohirrim... 

And one-hundred thousand more in Isen Meares, if you could convince them to join, Athfaë interjected.

Fifty-fifty thousand more in the Fellowship, Dacil offered.

And two-thousssand vampiresss, Lynza's voice hissed.

What in Udun? Celebdraug cried.

Ven in bat form, ve can mindssspeak. 

Thou hast been listening in the whole time? Mordae asked, not entirely friendly sounding.

Of courssse not. Jussst the lassst few minutesss. 

Who is she? Athfaë growled.

Lynza, the vampire offered. An ally in your qvessst. 

A vampire? Dacil questioned extremely warily.

No. A beautiful fairy princesss sssent from Prettyland to make you sssmile vith joy, Lynza spat sarcastically. Yesss, a vampire. And no, I do not serve ze Remnant scum. 

If you trust her, Athfaë said slowly, Then so do we. 

Zank you, Lynza replied. You are sssmart for a human. 

Thank you, I think, Athfaë responded.

The group laughed.

Anyvay, asss I vasss going to sssay, ve vill be at our camp in but a few momentsss. Can ve get your attention, pleassse. 

Of course, Celebdraug replied, her presence in the mind conversation vanishing with Lynza's.

Namarie, friends. Until we meet again, Mordae said, and his presence began to fade as well.

The palantír were dangerous weapons that few could properly wield. There were many legends as to how they came into existence. The elves said they were stars fallen from the heavens as a gift to the Elder race from the Valar. The Gondorim legend was that a great king forged them long ago. The dwarves insisted that one of their own had created the orbs in the dark mines, and that they had been stolen by elves. The Numenorians claimed their greatest mariners had discovered the tools in the open sea, floating atop the water.

Only one being remained in Middle Earth that knew the true origin of the weapons. Maneva Mornië. They had been fashioned from pure dark energy by his master, Morgoth, in the First Age. The Dark Lord had then scattered them across Middle Earth where he knew they would be found by men, who would use them to serve what they though were their own purposes. In reality, Morgoth would use the weapons to sway kings' decisions, send false information, and create utter chaos and disorder without the knowledge of the victims.

There were many applications of the palantír, all based on the power of the being wielding them. An average human could do nothing with the orb save look at its swirling surface. A more powerful human or an average elf could use the palantír as what they were normally used for, a seeing-stone. The range of the sight varied on the power of the user, but it was generally quite a vast distance.

A more powerful elf or a Mage could use the palantír to speak with whomever they desired; this was a rarity now in Middle Earth. A High Mage could use the weapon to see and speak with whomever they wished, and a Grand Mage, of which only two still lived in Middle Earth – Gandalf and Mornië – could project any image that he wanted to any being he thought of, and communicate in innumerable methods.

Mornië smiled to himself. He would now use the palantír in such a way as had not been seen since Sauron had diminished in power so greatly in the Third Age.

Just before Mordae's presence vanished, his voice returned.

Pertaining to our plans, Mordae said, Tell Aragorn and Gandalf to pull our of our forces back to Lorien. Once we have amassed, they should take the troops through the Dead Marshes, where you will wait for Celebdraug and me to arrive. 

How long do you think you will be? Dacil asked.

Surprised, Mornië, who posed as Mordae, stalled for a second. We should be in...Moria...soon, he said cautiously.

Moria? I thought you were going to Khazad. Athfaë queried, sounding perplexed.

Mornië smiled. So that was where the elves were heading. Moria, Khazad, same thing, the Drow said suavely, Filled with those dwarf and orc scum. 

The humans laughed.

One final thing, Mornië interrupted, a sudden thought coming to him. Tell Gandalf not to attempt to contact us; I fear that someone may be watching. 

There was a pause, and Mornië held his breath.

Then, Athfaë. I shall. 

Thank thee. I am needed. Namarie. 

Nuhmoriea. 

The humans laughed again, and south in Baradu, Mornië rolled his eyes in disgust.

The presence of 'Mordae' vanished.

Mornië dropped to his knees, sweat poring down his forehead from the exertion it had taken to accomplish what he had. He inhaled deeply, then, turned his head to the night sky and laughed a long, evil, laugh. He had earned it.


	34. Chapter XXXIII: Home AgainSort of

_**Chapter XXXIII: Home Again...Sort of**_

"I assume that means good news, sir," Garulf growled from his seat atop Baradu, where he and Grishnákh sat watching Mornië continue to laugh. Two projections, one of Vrayon, the other of Turdú, glimmered on two different chairs beside the other Generals.

"They will be in the Dead Marshes within the week," Mornië cried gloatingly.

"Excellent," Turdú murmured.

"And, once Vrayon secures his ring, thee acquires the Night Crystal, and Grishnákh retakes possession of the Dwarf ring, which," Mornië paused, stroking his goatee, "We could most likely do without, if need be, we will be set for domination. Garulf, dost thou carry the other dwarf rings with thee?"

"But of course, my lord."

"Good. Do not lose them."

"Never, lord."

"Now, Vrayon," Mornië said, turning to the projection, "The Noldor are running right to thee. Dost thou wish for assistance in their demise?"

"I need not ze help of ze infid...," the vampire caught himself, but not soon enough. Garulf's red eyes blazed with a deep hatred. "Leadersss," Vrayon continued, either ignoring or not noticing the Lychen, "And Turdú appearsss to be razer occupied."

The Drow general nodded in confirmation, "Though, I would happily divert my mission if it resulted in the death of the Noldor."

"No, thou wilt not," Mornië snapped. "Thy mission is perhaps of even greater importance. And Vrayon, I would not stretch myself to thin if I were thee. To fight the dwarves and the Noldor on two fronts would be quite unwise."

"Yesss, lord," Vrayon agreed half-heartedly.

"Grishnákh, you and Garulf are to go and assist Vrayon in slaying the Noldor," Mornië ordered. "You are under his command while in his country. Understood?"

The orc and the lychen both looked incredibly unhappy, but nodded in agreement.

"I would leave now, if I were thee," Mornië hinted.

The generals stood, saluted angrily, and stormed from the room.

"Infindelsss," Vrayon hissed after they were out of earshot.

Mornië smiled, "Yes, but we must keep them around. That is, until their usefulness has run thin."

Vrayon cackled, but Turdú's mind wandered back to the night before, to the sight of Dilotè sitting like an emotionless statue atop her horse. Infidel...is that all Dilotè was to Mornië? Another rung on the ladder of bodies Mornië used to climb the wall of power?

He was awakened from his thinking by Mornië.

"Vrayon, thou art dismissed. Good luck with the dwarves tomorrow."

"Zank you, sssir."

The vampire's image flickered and vanished as Mornië waved it away.

"As for thee, my brother," the Dark Lord said to Turdú, I need thee to perform two tasks for me."

"Name them, Master."

"One, get my Night Crystal."

"Already working on it, sir," Turdú answered.

"Two, I need thee to pay a little visit in the Dead Marshes. There is a party about to occur there, and I am formally inviting thee and all thy troops."

"I am honored," Turdú responded with a smirk.

Mornië returned the vicious smile. "Dismissed, General." With a wave of the Dark Master's hand, Turdú's image vanished as well, leaving Mornië alone atop Baradu.

He once again strode slowly to the palantír and placed his hands atop the orb.

"Now," he whispered, "To invite the other guests..."

Garulf stood and waited for Grishnákh and the other orcs with his own small entourage of warriors he had chosen to embark on the journey to Ramgost.

"So, what are we doing again?" Wyvren, Garulf's Captain, growled.

"Saving the vampire scum," the General replied somewhat angrily.

"Well, good, that's got to be torture for them," Wyvren rumbled with amusement.

"We'll be under their command," Garulf snarled.

At this, the other lychens in the assembly began grumbling their complaints.

"What kind of scum would order that? The vampire himself?" Wyvren bellowed, his red eyes glowing even brighter.

"Maneva Mornië."

The company fell dead silent; treason and speaking against the Dark Lord was grounds for immediate execution by the Drow death squads.

The cluster of lychens was mostly still silent when Grishnákh and the rest of the heavily armored Uruk-hai marched up to them.

"What's our plan, Garulf?" Grishnákh growled.

The lychen shrugged. "What's the fastest route from here to Ramgost?"

The orc thought for a moment.

"I have no idea."

"I'll tell you what," Garulf said, cracking his knuckles, "Let's go around the east side of Belgor and kill anything we can find in Pelinor fields, then go through Isen Meares."

"Won't that be difficult?" the orc argued. "Isen Meares is full of enemies, isn't it?"

"Not if Turdú did his job right."

With a slight double-pop, Lynza and Draylen dropped beside Mordae and Celebdraug, who stood, dumbfounded, staring at the 'Tvhesta Fortress.' Draylen leaned his head in between the elves.

"Problem?"

Mordae nodded. "Two things. One," the elf gingerly reached a hand up and gently pushed aside one of the blades from Draylen's staff, which had come to rest dangerously close to his face. "Watch where you're pointing that thing. Two, you made Rivendell into your fortress?"

Lynza pranced lightly around the three and stood in front of them, smiling. Her happy expression disappeared as she saw that of the elves.

"You do not like this?"

"Well," Celebdraug sighed, "I suppose it's better than being overrun by orcs."

Lynza brightened. "Come," she said cheerily, "You will see. We left it how we found it. Very pretty, elvish stuff."

She began to strut down the path to the city, which, from the outside at least, appeared to be as the vampire had said; the only change was the Tvhenstan flag rather than the Sindarin flag flying from the posts.

The elves did not follow, still a bit thunderstruck at seeing their old home in use by another race.

Draylen reached to his back, adjusted his staff so the blades were nearly vertical, then, good-naturedly took Celebdraug's arm. He attempted to grab Mordae, but the elf playfully disengaged his arm and twisted the vampire's lightly around.

"Fine then, suit yourself," Draylen whined mockingly.

He then began to follow Lynza, dragging Celebdraug along with him. Mordae followed a moment later, his long strides allowing him to catch up quickly and walk with the other two.

They soon arrived at the entryway to the main section of the city, where Lynza stood, waiting. She guided them into the main 'throne room', where Elrond's guests would mingle before moving to the council room. All the elves had called it the throne room despite the fact that there was no throne in sight.

As they entered the room, a flood of memories hit Mordae and Celebdraug. They recalled the many pranks and innocuous vandalisms they had instigated, the grand meetings of the various leaders of Middle Earth in Ages past, and all the friends they had once known in Rivendell, all of whom had long been slain or passed to Valinor.

They were rather surprised to see all the old tapestries, paintings, and other decorations still hanging where they originally had; not a single ornament, down to the suits of armor that lined the walls had been changed or moved.

"I must say," Celebdraug murmured, "I am impressed. It looks good."

"Thank you," Lynza gave a slight, sarcastic, bow. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to go and get rid of these," she gestured to the various weapons she wore. "You may remove your swords, bows, and other weapons, if you are carrying any, in your rooms."

Mordae pulled aside his outer cloak, revealing the dozens of blades the elves concealed.

"Oooh," Draylen muttered in awe. "Isn't that heavy?"

Celebdraug tossed one of her long daggers she wore against the side of her chest to him. He caught it and was immediately shocked at the weight.

"It's light as a feather!"

"Mìthril," Celebdraug explained, holding out her hand for him to return the weapon.

The vampire shook his head, sliding the dagger under his light plate armor on his chest.

"I'm keeping this thing," Draylen announced mischievously.

"Like Udun you are," Celebdraug growled teasingly.

As the two wrestled for the blade, Mordae turned to Lynza.

"So," he asked, "Where are our rooms?"

She shrugged. "No idea. They're your rooms, aren't they?"

"Oh! _Our_ rooms. But doesn't somebody live there?"

The vampire shrugged. "Most likely. But they will be more than happy to give up their room for you, I'm sure."

"If you say so." Mordae turned around and wrapped one arm around Draylen and one around Celebdraug, who squealed with discontentment, and picked them both up off the ground.

"Let's go, you guys."


	35. Chapter XXXIV: Second Guessing, Final De...

_**Chapter XXXIV: Second Guessing, Final Destinations, and First Impressions**_

"Pull all the troops back?" Aragorn asked incredulously, "Whose bright idea was that?"

Athfaë and Dacil, who sat beside Glorfindel, Niphredil and Gandalf in the council chamber of Lorien, cringed.

"So," Aragorn growled as he paced back and forth before the small assembly, "You want me to pull out all my defenses, every soldier guarding all my offensive positions that I have acquired, so that we can go to the Dead Marshes?"

Athfaë shrugged innocently. "Yes."

Aragorn ceased his pacing and raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"You do realize that this would basically just allow the Remnant to walk into Lorien while we are gone, correct?"

Athfaë shrugged again. "Don't kill the messenger. This was Mordae and Celebdraug's plan."

At this information, Aragorn resumed pacing, now absently fingering the hilt of his sword.

He began to think aloud. "I trust their judgment, but this is ludicrous! There is no way they can secure the rings and get to the Dead Marshes before _somebody _finds us. And, in the Marshes, the cavalry is practically useless. They'll be slowed down, have to pick their way through the dry sections."

"Which," Glorfindel interrupted boldly, "Is why they want us to do that."

Aragorn spun to glare at the elf.

Niphredil blanched slightly, but Glorfindel met the man's icy stare with his own cold, unnerving, elven stare.

"The Fellowship would never see it coming. Never in all the Ages that Minas Tirith has stood have any dared to attack it by way of the Dead Marshes. From that direction, yes, but none have entered that place, save the filthy _pherrinah__1_, since the Great Battle."

Aragorn's gaze softened. "You make a good point."

"Of course."

"No," Gandalf interjected. The wizard had sat silently throughout the whole meeting, until now.

Aragorn now spun to face the wizard. "No?"

"It is not right," Gandalf explained. "Mordae and Celebdraug have many priorities. Destroying the Fellowship is not one of them. To mobilize the entire army against Minas Tirith will weaken both sides and allow the Remnant to sweep us all into the Abyss."

"The Remnant, while a threat, are not nearly powerful enough to accomplish the defeat of both armies," Aragorn countered. "Besides, they would have to get through what will be left of the Fellowship before they reached us. That would weaken _them_ as well."

"The Remnant is far more powerful than we know or wish to believe, let me tell you that," Gandalf spoke in the soft yet harsh tone he often used when chiding his apprentices.

"Celebdraug and Mordae also said that somebody may have been monitoring our discussions over the palantír. Perhaps they plan an ambush for whomever it was," Dacil suggested meekly.

Gandalf nodded sagely. "Excellent idea. The only one powerful enough to watch us, to my knowledge, is Maneva Mornië. Perhaps they _want_ to lure the Remnant to the Dead Marshes."

"Maybe they have discovered a way to end both threats in one swoop!" Niphredil exclaimed excitedly.

"However," Gandalf's face suddenly darkened, "Perhaps they have not thought that the Remnant would watch us. Our forces might be ambushed and crushed before they could put their plan in motion."

"And perhaps," Aragorn growled, "They are really two hobbits standing on stilts. We could stand here and argue their motives until we are hoarse, but it would do us no good. Mordae and Celebdraug have never led me wrong before, and I do not believe they would do it now. I trust them with my life."

He turned his gaze to Glorfindel. "Send out runners. Better yet, go with them. Pull all of our forces to the edge of the Dead Marshes. We venture forward tomorrow at noon. That is final."

With a dramatic swoop of his cape, the king stormed form the room, head held high.

_"Cranky brat," _Glorfindel sighed to Niphredil, who nodded emphatically.

As dusk settled over the south, Garulf, Grishnákh, and the outfit of riders that traveled with them burst from the forest of Lindon, east of Minas Tirith, roaring and waving their weapons madly. The orcs again rode atop the lychens, who had all changed into their wolf-like form.

No one took heed of the small horde until they drew within a quarter mile of a small caravan in the middle of making the six-league journey from Minas Tirith to New Osgiliath.

From either city, the undersized army was unidentifiable, just a mass of black. But, when the blur slowed and stopped as they collided with the other caravan, it became evident from the flying bodies and sudden flames that they were not friendly.

Inside New Osgiliath, chaos reigned.

"Sound the alarm!" a distraught Aragost cried as he bolted from his quarters. "Ready the cavalry! Infantry to your posts!"

The General reached out and stopped Eorlmer as the young man dashed past him.

"Where is Dacil?" Aragost cried.

"In Lorien, sir."

The General swore, angry at himself for forgetting, angry at Dacil for not being there when he needed him for the second time, angry at the Remnant for having the audacity to attack on his own doorstep. "Lead in his place!"

Garulf leaped up onto the front of the lead wagon, batting one of the passengers from the vehicle with a swat of his massive paw. The lychen craned his neck upward and bit down hard on the leg of the driver, pulling the screaming man to his level, where Grishnákh finished him with a thrust of his spear.

The orc slashed his sword across a civilian carrying a diminutive dagger, withdrew a small metal orb similar to what the other Remnant soldiers used to signal their troops, flicked it across his belt, and hurled it into the wagon.

Garulf leaped from the cart as the orb exploded, sending out a good-sized wave of fire and hurling burning shrapnel meters from the center of the blast. The lychen general swept his gaze toward the two imposing cities on either side, from which issued two battalions of cavalry members.

We should teach them the same lesson they were taught at New Edoras, the wolfman growled to Grishnákh, who smirked in agreement.

The cavalry units, each consisting of nearly three-hundred Fellowship soldiers, thundered closer and closer to the carnage drawing practically to bow range.

However, in the essence of time... Garulf let out a deafening roar, and the Remnant troops broke off the massacre and bolted toward the nearby Ithilien forest to the west, just far enough ahead of the Fellowship to escape the dejected cavalry.

Eorlmer drew his horse slowly alongside the burning caravan, dreading what he would see. As he slowly jogged his mount down the length of the destruction, his worst fears were confirmed; none of the civilians had survived.

He watched the lychens and orcs fade into the distance, shaking his head. He melancholically turned his horse back toward Osgiliath, not saying a word to either group of cavalrymen. Without a sound, the rest of the Fellowship rode respectfully away from the slaughter.

Mordae led Lynza down the various paths of Rivendell toward the familiar rooms, carrying the still squirming Celebdraug and Draylen. He came to a halt before the simple wooden door that led to the conjoined suite that the elves had resided in.

The elf released Draylen and his cousin, who swiftly kicked him in the shins.

"Ah! What was that for?" Mordae cried.

Celebdraug put her nose in the air and turned her back on him.

Mordae shrugged at Lynza and Draylen, the latter of whom kicked him in the stomach.

"Hey!" the elf shrieked as he staggered back into Lynza.

The other vampire shrugged mockingly, then stood beside Celebdraug.

Lynza smiled, walked to the doorway, and rapped sharply on the door, which opened a moment later, revealing a tall, dark haired man with a gaunt face. The room behind him looked virtually unchanged, as far as Mordae could tell, other than the weapons that the vampire had replaced with his own.

"Yes?" the vampire hissed in Endea.

"Lieutenant Zalok, the original owners are home," Lynza replied. "Would you mind sharing?"

The vampire's eyes traced slowly up Mordae's gigantic body to his face, widening as they saw his elven features. "Oh, not vone bit!" Zalok replied in the Common Tongue, presumably so that the elves could understand him.

"We speak Endea, but thank you," Mordae said with a nod.

"We?" Zalok looked confused.

Celebdraug shoved Mordae aside and stood in front of him. "We."

"Ah." The vampire stepped to the side and swept his arm inward. "Come in, please."

Celebdraug obliged him, followed by Mordae, who was again shoved aside and replaced by Draylen. Before Draylen could fully enter, however, Mordae jerked him back and into Lynza.

Zalok raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"Ah, home sweet home," Celebdraug said, throwing herself onto the bed before realizing that she had not slept in it for over a century.

She rolled off the bed and stood awkwardly in the corner. "I apologize."

Zalok smiled. "Not a problem. I will sleep elsewhere, if you wish."

Mordae shook his head, "We'll take one room, and you can take the other, provided the suite-mate doesn't mind sharing."

Draylen stepped forward and gave a slight bow.

"Ah, in that case," Celebdraug said teasingly, "It doesn't matter what he thinks. Which room would you prefer?"

"It matters not to me," Zalok offered.

Draylen shrugged, as did Mordae.

"Well, if I'm the only one who cares," Celebdraug huffed, "We'll sleep in this one, since it used to be mine."

"I assumed so from the women's clothing that I found in my closet," Zalok said with a smile. "You have...interesting...tastes."

"Thank you."

"I hate to break up the reunion, or whatever you would call this," Lynza interrupted, "But I have some rather urgent business to attend to. If we could all meet in the Council Area in an hour, I would be much obliged."

Zalok saluted sharply; Draylen tossed a limp hand in the general direction of his forehead.

Mordae and Celebdraug saluted as well, much to Lynza's objection.

"It's of little consequence," Mordae chastised her. "Just forget about it." He patted her shoulder in a mocking yet reassuring gesture. "Now, I'm not ashamed of my rippling muscles and finely toned body, but I'm not sure if the rest of you are comfortable with me changing in front of you. So, if we could..."

The room was empty in an instant.

1 Hobbits


	36. Chapter XXXV: The Council of Lynza

_**Chapter XXXV: The Council of Lynza**_

An hour later, Mordae and Celebdraug made their way through the secret passages that they had discovered or made over the last thousand years. Mordae had chosen to wear one of his favorite outfits – which he had not been able to wear for quite some time – consisting of a loose fitting black tunic, white pants, and a white cape.

Celebdraug again wore her signature red blouse, black pants, and black cape. She had bypassed the scarf around the forehead and the battle-ready hairstyle, seeing no need to pass off as ferocious. Mordae thought he noticed that, despite the consistency color-wise, there was a more, dare he say...lady-like...air about her, but would not dream of mentioning it. No matter how lady-like his cousin looked, she would not hesitate to cause extreme pain to any who even suggested it.

The two elves made their way to the famed Council of Elrond with extreme stealth, sliding through cracks in the walls, crawling hollowed out places behind closet doors, climbing hidden rope ladders, and darting across shadow hidden ceiling beams.

At the end of their journey, Celebdraug pulled herself from a narrow shaft by way of a rope, lifted a trapdoor, and wriggled out from under Elrond's seat in the Council, causing Lynza, who sat in the throne-like chair, to hiss with surprise and leap up the thin posts atop the seat's back.

Celebdraug stood, straightened and smoothed her blouse, then caught sight of Lynza. At the spectacle the vampire made, dressed in her menacing black and red streaked cloak and robes, yet clinging desperately to the top of the chair, the elf burst out laughing.

Mordae crawled out of the shaft moments later, looking confusedly at Celebdraug, then Draylen, who also sat laughing. Celebdraug pointed to Lynza, who hurriedly leaped from the back of the throne as the other elf turned to look at her. He smiled, not fully able to comprehend the scene, then sat in Gandalf's chair, two seats to Draylen's left.

"Oooh, you bad," Celebdraug chided her cousin, sliding into the seat to Draylen's right.

Mordae grinned mischievously. He glanced at the chair Celebdraug was sitting in, then raised his hand limply, bent at the wrist.

Celebdraug looked up in horror, then leaped from her seat and moved to the one to Draylen's other side.

The vampire cocked his head in confusion.

"Legolas," Celebdraug explained.

Draylen nodded sagely, edging slightly away from the adjacent chair.

"I see you know of him as well," Mordae commented.

"Oh, I know far too much of him," the vampire sighed.

The elf raised his eyebrows.

"Ugh! Not that much!" Draylen exclaimed.

Celebdraug snorted and patted Draylen on the shoulder. "It's okay. If that's what you chose to do, it's your decision."

The vampire huffed, burying his face in his hands with a cry of mock despair.

Zalok and a few more Tvhesta lieutenants entered a few moments later, wearing garments nearly identical to those of the other two vampires. They each saluted and took seats around the Council, creating some semblance of a circle.

Lynza, glad to have had the attention removed from her, tapped her chair lightly with her claws, calling the others to silence, which they somewhat regretfully fell into.

Clearing her throat, Lynza gestured to the elves. "As a few of you already know, we have acquired some allies. I will allow them to introduce themselves, if they wish."

Mordae and Celebdraug locked eyes, and Mordae shrugged; the elf had always been quite shy, despite his gregarious demeanor.

Celebdraug sighed and rose from her seat, her cousin following her lead. "I am Celebdraug Delunar, General of the Dunedain. We come from Lorien, sent by Aragorn, son of Arathorn, deposed king of Middle Earth."

Mordae cleared his throat, "Mordae Conanoren, General of the Dunedain."

"You are far from home, elves," one of the lieutenants hissed. "What brings you to this desolate region?"

"First of all," Celebdraug argued, "We are _not_ far from home. We happened to have lived here for several hundred years."

"And our business is our own," Mordae continued, emboldened by Celebdraug's assertiveness. "We are not allowed to disclose any information at this time."

"Unfortunately," Lynza countered, "Keeping secrets is very much discouraged in the Tvhesta."

"Your point?" Celebdraug asked insolently.

"You tell us what we want to know, we tell you whatever you want to know. That is how things work around here."

The elves again made eye contact.

Mordae sat, then leaned forward in his chair. "As I am sure you are all aware of, Middle Earth is at war. Maneva Mornië and his army threaten to wipe all we stand for from the face of Ea. He is gathering the rings of power that Sauron forged to form a new ring, even more powerful than that of the former Dark Lord. Our task is to impede his progress. We have already secured the ring from Moria," the elf held up his wrist, on which the dwarf wring glittered, dangling from a chain wrapped tightly around his gauntlet. "We are making our way to Khazad, to secure the final dwarf ring; Mornië has already acquired the other five from dwarf caves in Lycha. That is our mission."

Celebdraug shot a quick, slightly venomous glance at her cousin, then at Lynza and the other vampires.

Seeing her moderate distress, Draylen leaned over and whispered in Celebdraug's ear. "I promise we won't kill you. At least, I won't. Yet."

"So reassuring," she muttered back.

Lynza nodded slowly. "Thank you, Mordae. Your quest is quite an honorable one, if I may say so."

The rest of the vampires murmured in agreement.

"Now, you tell me what I want to know," Mordae said pointedly. The vampires fell immediately silent, and Celebdraug sat up slightly, a tiny grin forming on her face. Mordae had played his cards well.

Lynza smiled as well, quite pleased at being defeated in her own battle of wits. "Ask away."

"Tell me about your group. This, 'Tvhesta'. Where did you come from?" Mordae inquired.

"And what is _your_ mission?" Celebdraug added.

Lynza smiled and leaned back in her throne. "Prepare yourselves for story-time, friends."

Glorfindel raced southward, dressed in his lightest outfit, carrying his most lightweight sword. Directly to his right ran Niphredil, who had insisted on coming with him on his mission, despite his objections. She didn't seem to understand that Isen Meares was no longer Venyarohirrim territory; more than three-quarters of the region was overrun by Remnant troops, led by the general Turdú Morngûl.

Glorfindel had encountered Turdú once, when traveling with Mordae and Celebdraug. He had not been able to do battle with the General; the other two elves had run him off before he had a chance to fight. What worried Glorfindel was that he had heard Mordae make the comment that it had been one of the best fights he had ever been in.

He glanced over at Niphredil, who smiled broadly at him. She never had any problem outrunning him; she was a natural runner, able to race Mordae and Celebdraug, occasionally even beat them. What did worry him were her fighting abilities; Glorfindel was confident that she could be an excellent warrior if she wanted to, but Niphredil insisted on maintaining her pacifist views, even in the turmoil of the Age. If they were attacked, she would be helpless, he would have to defend them both, and his running sword would not be able to stand against an orc or Drow horde.

_"What's the matter?" _Niphredil asked worriedly, only slightly out of breath. She pushed a strand of her long silvery-blonde hair, the trademark of the Sylvan elves, behind her ear as she continued to maintain her gaze on Glorfindel.

He shrugged, then shook his head. _"Nothing,"_ he panted.

_"Are you getting tired?"_

Glorfindel shook his head.

Suddenly, Niphredil stopped, grabbing Glorfindel's arm. He too stopped, looking confusedly at Niphredil, who had cocked her head to the side.

_"Do you hear that?" _she whispered.

_"It's probably either my heart or my lungs yelling at me," _Glorfindel gasped.

Niphredil held up a finger to her lips. _"Somebody is following us."_

Dilotè slowed to a silent stop as the two Sylvans loomed closer. She quietly drew her glittering black blades, advancing slowly through the brush. Beside her, she heard the sound of a bow being tensed; she spun and put her hand on Serke'turr's bow.

"Thou would shoot an unarmed target in the back?" she asked disdainfully.

Serke'turr shrugged, lowering his bow and drawing his own silver blade.

Dilotè nodded in concurrence with his decision, and he smiled nervously. The Drow maiden rolled her eyes, then, without a sound, launched herself over the small bush she hid behind, blades raised toward the sky.


	37. Chapter XXXVI: History Lessons

_**Chapter XXXVI: History Lessons**_

"How old would you say I am?" Lynza asked innocently, reclining in her throne.

The elves met eyes for a moment.

"Eh," Celebdraug offered, "Thirty?"

The vampires burst out laughing, exchanging bemused glances.

"Give or take five-thousand," Lynza giggled.

"Wow," Mordae said in disbelief, "Not bad looking, if I may say so."

"Says the seven-thousand year old who looks better than most twenty year olds," the vampire said with a teasing smile.

"True," Mordae acknowledged with a slight nod, bringing a few chuckles from the assembled Tvhesta.

"In any case," Lynza continued with a nod, "My point is that all of this history is first hand.

"At the beginning of the Second Age, after the fall of Udun, the vampires rose from the ashes of the darkness. We were not, contrary to popular belief, created from the Darkness or _by_ the Darkness; we were of our own accord. Brought into existence by Illúvatar himself to combat that which originated from the menace of the Dark Lord; the Lychens.

"At the beginning of our lives, we resided in relative secrecy and peace. We made sparse contacts with few and selected men and elves, but very limited. At the time, we did not drink the blood of sentient creatures. However, because we have no blood of our own, we must consume it to sustain ourselves. Thus, we hunted wild pigs, Stoors, orcs, other creatures as such, but rarely men, and _never_ elves.

"After one-thousand years of this life, we encountered the Lychens for the first time. The creatures were bred by Morgoth in Udun to serve as insurgents in the armies of men. They were able to venture into the light in their 'human' form, while transforming at will into terrible wolf-like monsters; dark, and full of malice."

"And they smelled bad," Draylen added.

There was scattered of laughter from the elves and a few of the vampires, but they were silenced by a slightly venomous glare from Lynza.

There was a long pause, then, Draylen motioned for her to begin, again drawing muffled laughter.

Lynza shook her head, sighed, and continued.

"However, being of Morgoth, they were deceitful by nature, convincing us that they were our friends and allies. After drawing close enough to us that we would never be prepared with any sort of opposition to an invasion, the Lychens attacked us, during the day, in 'human' form."

She held up a hand to stop the inevitable questions.

"We cannot reside in the light, at least, not without extreme pain. We do not die from it, but it causes our skin to burn and weakens us greatly.

"The Lychens, however, _can_ survive in daylight without any pain at all in 'human' form. Therefore, we were helpless; it was a massacre. They would have crushed us were it not for two brave lieutenants that brought a massive counterattack that utterly broke the back of the Lychens for the next two-thousand five-hundred years. You may know them, as a matter of fact."

The elves raised their eyebrows.

"Vrayon was one lieutenant, and I the other. We called upon Illúvatar to save us, and through his strength, we beat back the Lychen army."

Lynza leaned forward, and her eyes shone with the memory of the glory days of the vampire kingdom.

"All was well for another six-hundred years, as Vrayon and I brought our troops to victory after victory against evil men, orcs, and Lychens. It was a glorious time for all."

Many of the older vampires in the circle nodded in agreement, their eyes all containing a far-off look as they once again traveled the forests in peace and harmony with their brethren.

Lynza continued. "Then, about five-hundred years ago, something happened. We did not know at the time, but Vrayon came in contact with a man. A Drow, to be more exact."

"Maneva Mornië," Celebdraug murmured.

"Precisely," Lynza hissed angrily. "Mornië had been watching the two of us, and had seen that Vrayon was power-hungry and rash. Under the Drow's direction, Vrayon began advocating the drinking of captives' blood. It made our soldiers more powerful, but lowered their intelligence, and therefore their resistance to orders."

The vampire sat back, her eyes dark with rage.

"At first, most were appalled. But as word of the success with the new '_Lic'za_', blood-soldiers, spread, more and more began to follow Vrayon's ways. Soon, it was discovered that by drinking the blood directly from the victim, it would transform them into a sub-vampire, retaining their knowledge of battle, but with even less self-will.

"It was at this time that the assassins came. They were mysterious, black robed figures that would come silently in the night and leave no trace that they, nor their victim, had ever existed. They called themselves the Halda'ohtar, I believe."

Mordae and Celebdraug leaned forward at the sound of a familiar piece of knowledge.

"Dilotè Linta," Mordae muttered. "Captain of the Drow."

Lynza gazed questioningly at the elf, compelling him to continue.

"She is Halda'ohtar. Excellent warrior, very high sense of honor."

The vampire nodded. "It is said that the Halda'ohtar would not kill unarmed victims, and would often leave family alone, taking only the target and any who bore weapons."

Lynza continued with her chronicle of the vampire history.

"As more and more of my supporters disappeared, falling victim to the Halda'ohtar, I began to lose followers. It was at this time that Mornië revealed himself.

"To say he is charismatic is a drastic understatement; he borders on hypnotic. Our people would hang on his every word. He promised, in return for our allegiance, that he would bring an end to the Halda'ohtar. At the time, we did not realize that he was in _charge _of the Halda'ohtar, and had been ordering the assassinations himself.

"And so, the majority of people grew to love him. After a few years, he presented us with the Remnant plan. He would build us, in conjunction with the orcs, Drow, and Lychens, who were under 'new leadership', into a great army that would take over Middle Earth.

"When the argument was posed about cooperating with the Lychens, he gave a very well worded speech, in which he promised that the Lychens and the orcs were merely rungs on the Ladder of Power; we would use them to climb higher, then, once past, forget about them and throw them down with the rest. All lies, of course. However, my people did not see this. They joined Mornië and practically worshiped him as a god.

"After five years of tension, the dam finally broke. Mornië and his followers rose up against me and my soldiers in a bloody war that lasted for another four years, until finally, we were forced to withdraw from my country and move to the mountains."

Lynza sighed, and her gaze drifted to the nearby Misty Mountain range to the east.

"There, my followers and I resided until, about fifty years ago, it was discovered that Rivendell had emptied. Thus, we made our home here. And that," the vampire exhaled and collapsed back against her chair, "Is where we stand today. Any questions?"

The elves were silent for a moment, then, Celebdraug spoke.

"When we were in New Edoras, we saw Vrayon shoot some crazy red-misty stuff from his hands, and Mornië just...disappeared...from in front of us. Do you know what that was?"

Lynza nodded. "The _za'vryn_. It is an ancient traditional story, practically legend, that the ruling family of the vampires in the beginning of our time constructed a system of transportation with two gates, one in each of our major cities. Entering these gates would cause you to be transported to the next, by virtue of your unique blood signature.

"Those who are direct descendants of the royal family have direct access to the gates wherever they are, and can give others entrance from any point as well. Each member of the family has the power to create one new gate wherever they so chose; this has resulted in over one-hundred gates, all around Middle Earth."

"Why have we not seen any before?" Mordae asked, absently running his fingers up and down the etchings in Gandalf's throne, which he sat in.

"All except the original two are not substantial. They are more of...metaphysical."

The elf nodded knowingly.

There was another long pause.

"Well then," Mordae finally spoke, "What exactly is your business as of now?"

Lynza smiled broadly, revealing her long fangs. "I thought you would never ask.

"I am to meet with Vrayon tonight. I sent a very convincing letter to him, ordering the immediate ceasing of military action against us, and the surrendering of all Remnant information I wish. I will meet him in Lvrast, alone, where he will give me everything I want."

"And what makes you think that?" Celebdraug cried. "How has Vrayon ever shown that he is trustworthy?"

"I have one playing card he cannot battle with," Lynza said with a smirk.

"And that is..." Mordae gestured for her to complete his sentence.

"None of your business."

"Secrets are very much discouraged in the Tvhesta," Mordae countered.

"Well played, Mordae," Lynza admitted with a slight nod, "But I fear this is far too big of a secret for any to know. As far as my knowledge reaches, only two others know of it. Vrayon, and Draylen. And they will not tell you, either, correct?"

Lynza shot a venomous glance at Draylen, who appeared to be intently studying the arrangement of the tiles on the floor. There was a long silence as he continued to ignore her; that is, until Celebdraug elbowed him sharply in the ribs.

The vampire looked up with a start. "Uh, yes, yes Lynza."

She glared at him.

"I mean no."

Her gaze did not waver.

"I will? I didn't? I won't?"

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and Draylen went back to studying the floor.

"He's probably forgotten anyway," Lynza finally muttered, to the amusement of the other vampires and the elves.

"And the dwarves," Celebdraug continued the discussion, "What of them?"

"I will tell you once I find out from my meeting," Lynza said. "Any other questions? Officers, anything?"

No one spoke.

"Well then, may the moon smile upon our next meeting. Get rest today; we may have a battle tomorrow, and I'm sure none of you want to miss it."

With that, the assembly slowly broke apart and faded back into the shadows of Rivendell. Outside, the sun began to rise.


	38. Chapter XXXVII: Unforseen Delays

_**Chapter XXXVII: Unforeseen Delays**_

Time seemed to slow for Glorfindel as he suddenly became aware of the dark figure hurling through the air toward him. The elf saw with dismay that Niphredil would not have time to react and would be speared by one of the long, wicked looking blades. The only way to save her, Glorfindel knew, was to react for her.

Leaping a little more than a meter off of the ground, Glorfindel gritted his teeth against what he was going to do. He tucked his feet up to his chest, then, as gently as he could while still moving her, kicked Niphredil's stomach, knocking her away from him, and the blade, as well as launching him backwards.

The other Silvan gave a little cry of surprise as she took the hit; fell backward, and lay on the ground, gasping for breath. She was about to reprimand Glorfindel when Dilotè flashed past her vision, swords aimed for where the two elves had just stood.

Dilotè hit the ground and rolled, angry with herself for missing. The Silvan general was better than she had anticipated, and she _never_ misjudged any of her targets. As she came up, she saw that the male had drawn a short sword, most likely one designed purely for reconnaissance; it would be made of a lighter material, one that would probably break more easily than most swords. An easy target.

Glorfindel lunged forward, his short sword hissing through the air toward the Drow woman, who danced back lightly, batting away his attack with one of her black blades. The Silvan continued his attack, his swings controlled and well aimed, but not good enough to penetrate the defense that the Drow put up.

Suddenly, standing above Niphredil, stood Serke'turr. The lieutenant's blade was raised high, prepared to slice off the maiden's head in one quick stroke. Niphredil held up her hand, as if to ward off the blow, but it was unnecessary; Glorfindel abandoned his battle with Dilotè and launched himself at Serke'turr, hurling the Drow to the ground.

Serke'turr hissed and rolled to his feet, waiting for Dilotè to take the Silvan from behind. Instead, the Halda'ohtar just gazed icily at the lieutenant, her look telling him that she would not be coming to his assistance.

The Silvan was on him in an instant, the glowing blade flashing rapidly in and out of his vision. Serke'turr was shocked with the ferocity and skill that his opponent wielded his blade. This 'scout' that he had been ordered to intercept was obviously more than he and Dilotè had bargained for. A seasoned warrior such as this was a rare find in Middle Earth these days, but never a good one to come against.

However, the Drow still managed to block or dodge the relentless attacks, though not as cleanly as he would have liked to. As he stumbled back, he saw his opponent raise his sword high in preparation for a blow that would surely end the Drow's life if it connected. Seeing his chance, Serke'turr swung with all his might at the Silvan's blade, which shattered with a peal of thunder.

Glorfindel swore to himself in his mind. He had known this would happen; the sword he carried could not stand up to much fighting. He shot a glance back to Niphredil, who cowered at the feet of the first Drow, the woman. He could not just give up and let her die.

The elf looked back to the other Drow, who stood haughtily, with a mocking smile crossing his face. Glorfindel felt a surge of anger at his attackers, then calmed it, settling into the fighting stance that Mordae and Celebdraug had taught him; left foot forward, back hand high, beside his face, front hand reaching out at rib level. His eyes met with his opponent, who smiled even more broadly and charged forward.

Niphredil let out a small cry and began to rise, but she sat as the other woman's blade swung slowly toward her neck, ordering her silence. The maiden bit her lip and watched as the other Drow rushed forward. She closed her eyes; she could not bear to watch Glorfindel's death.

The black sword hissed toward Glorfindel's neck, a sure kill for the swordsman. However, the elf lunged forward, striking his attacker in the nose with a flat palm. As the Drow staggered back, purple blood running down his face, Glorfindel stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the his assailant's. With a sharp twist, Glorfindel snapped the Drow's elbow, then leaped into the air, executing a full spin, lashing out with his foot at the completion of his rotation. His opponent staggered backward, dazed, bleeding, and weaponless.

Serke'turr was confused as to what had just occurred. One minute, he was about to kill the scout, the next, he was spinning in a blurry world, with a sharp pain in his arm and nose. Surely Dilotè would stop the elf now; if only for a moment, Serke'turr could certainly collect his thoughts and reorient himself.

But she still did not move to assist him. And the Silvan came onward, viciously kicking the back of Serke'turr's leg. The Drow felt himself spin, then felt his opponent's arm around his neck, constricting his airway and the veins leading to his brain.

Serke'turr gasped, black spots filling his vision as the blood-flow to his head ceased. The Drow could feel himself rapidly losing consciousness, and though he struggled, he could not loose the elf's grip on his neck and arm.

As the world began to fade, his resistance weakened, and Serke'turr felt himself turned toward Dilotè. Their eyes met; his pleading, hers cold. She mouthed one word, gesturing toward Niphredil who still cowered on the ground. _Honor._

Glorfindel felt his captive's thrashing cease, and his eyes met the other Drow's. She shrugged at him, gesturing for Glorfindel to finish his job. Under normal circumstances, Glorfindel knew he would simply drop the unconscious form on the ground and deal with him later. But his eyes fell on Niphredil. Niphredil, who had never harmed anyone, who never deserved to have to witness any of this, let alone be killed, unarmed, by the scum he held in his hand.

_"Look away," _he ordered.

Niphredil's eyes met Glorfindel's, but they were not filled with terror or disgust with him, as he would have suspected; they glowed with anger at the thought of captivity or death by the 'Morgoth-worshipers'. Niphredil was a devout follower of Illúvatar, but nearly seeing her partner nearly killed by the most hated race of the Drow was far too much for her. She turned her head in compliance with Glorfindel's request.

Glorfindel tightened his chokehold and remained motionless until he was certain that the Drow would never be able to harm another like his Niphredil. Then, with utter contempt, he dumped the body on the ground and faced the next attacker.

Dilotè smiled at the honor that the elf demonstrated. Though there was a slight chance he could survive, it was not likely that he could defeat her as he had Serke'turr. He had to know it, but still the Silvan faced her, boldly staring his demise in the face.

_"You show much skill, Glorfindel," _Dilotè complimented her victim. _"I am Dilotè Linta, Captain of the Drow."_

Glorfindel showed no surprise that Dilotè had known his name; he had served with distinction in high ranks for the past thousand years, and someone was bound to notice. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her accolade, but did not respond.

_"Let me be honest with you, if I may," _Dilotè offered.

Glorfindel shrugged almost imperceptibly.

_"There is no way you can escape,"_ the woman continued. _"Even if you manage to defeat me, two thousand elite Drow soldiers wait just a half- league from here. If I do not return with you in an hour, they will search for you. They will find you, and then, they will kill you. _

_"If you allow me to capture you, however, I can ensure that you will live, at least long enough for you to attempt an escape, which you undoubtedly will try, from what I have witnessed here."_

Glorfindel shrugged again, not arguing.

Dilotè spread her arms. _"So, are we going to do this the easy way?"_

"_Or your way?" _she asked as she slowly drew her blades, a look of derision crossing her face.

All was not as it would seem, however. There was an aphorism that the Halda'ohtar had always followed to the point of doctrine.

_If your enemy kneels before you, strike him down. If he stands before you, make him kneel. If he meets you with honor, treat him so accordingly._

Dilotè had always lived by this mantra. She had not stopped Serke'turr because he had not lived by the code of honor. An unarmed opponent was never killed. They must either be allowed to arm themselves how they wished – in this case, Glorfindel had chosen hand-to-hand combat – or not harmed at all. To kill an unarmed woman was the ultimate sin.

If Glorfindel surrendered, Dilotè would kill him. Surrender was dishonorable. If he fought, she would let him live.

Glorfindel knew what he had to do. To surrender would mean that Niphredil would be forced to live in captivity, a trial she would not survive. If he were to fight with Dilotè, she would at least a chance to flee northward, back to Lorien. With this assurance, Glorfindel gritted his teeth, offered a quick prayer to Illúvatar, then let out a cry to Niphredil.

_"Run!"_

Dilotè was taken by surprise as the elf before her charged the few meters forward and drove his foot into her chest. She flew backwards, tripping over the other elf woman, who rose and looked frantically at Glorfindel.

_"Run!" _he insisted.

With a tear running down her cheek, Niphredil bolted, leaving behind that which she cared the most about.

Glorfindel continued his assault, firing a double kick into the Drow. She blocked the first strike, but took the second in the face, knocking her to the ground. Dilotè lashed out with one of her blades at Glorfindel's stomach as she fell, slicing a thin laceration through his chain mail.

Still the elf came onward, driving his fist into the woman's face, causing her to drop one of her swords. However, Dilotè gritted her teeth and drove her other sword handle into the side of Glorfindel's head, knocking him off of her.

Dropping her other sword, Dilotè rolled on top of Glorfindel, pushing him into the ground. In an instant, she had his arm wrapped up in a lock and her legs wrapped around his neck. She tightened her legs for a moment, until she was satisfied that he was unconscious, then slowly released him, panting for breath.

_"Well fought, infidel."_

Niphredil pounded northward, not having any clear conception of where she was headed. Tears streamed uncontrollably down her face as she ran, blurring her vision and reminding her of her own weakness.

_If only I could fight like Celebdraug_, her thoughts chided her. _If only I was brave enough to defend myself. If only..._

Niphredil swiped angrily at her tears. _No. It is not a matter of bravery. Bravery does not mean killing. I can still be brave._

But how could she do anything to stop the events that were about to occur? The Drow's words rang ominously in her ears. _Two thousand elite Drow soldiers wait a half-league from here... _Niphredil was an amateur when it came to battle, but any imbecile could determine that two thousand _elite_ soldiers was a force to be reckoned with. Something was utterly wrong with the whole situation. Were the Drow going to sack Lorien, which was sure to be emptied by now? Were they going to attack the army as it departed?

_Glorfindel._ Niphredil was almost angry with herself at how her thoughts continuously returned to him. She loved him, true, but she also knew that he would want her to keep focused on the more serious dilemmas that faced her. He would tell her that he was but one life, far less significant than the thousands of others that were at stake. That was one of the many things she adored about him; his utter disregard for his own life in the face of losing other lives, his selflessness. A trait he had just demonstrated in the forest behind them, sacrificing himself for her.

Niphredil's throat tightened at that word. _Sacrifice._ _No,_ she swore to herself, _he is not dead. The Drow woman said she would not kill him._

A terrible thought struck the elf with such force that she almost broke pace. _Then what does she want from him? They will torture him for something..._

Niphredil let out an anguished cry. Then, slid to a halt as a new idea drove into her mind. _Mordae and Celebdraug. Glorfindel is their best friend. They want to know where Mordae and Celebdraug are. To kill them._

The Silvan dropped to her knees. _Illúvatar, guide me. Show me the path which I am to take. Give my Glorfindel the strength to tarry through whatever trials Your enemies invoke upon him. Be with Your children in their time of most dire need._

Niphredil looked up sharply as new warmth spread through her, a sense of inner peace. She rose with steady determination, not knowing why, but feeling pulled to the northeast. She began to trot in that direction, then, broke into a full sprint, the energy of her Lord pounding in her veins.

_Thank You, Illúvatar. _


	39. Chapter XXXVIII: Prayers of the Children

_**Chapter XXXIIX: Prayers of the Children**_

Forty leagues from the Dead Marshes, halfway between Minas Tirith and the Marsh itself, Dacil reined his horse to a halt. A gray and white serpent snaked its way toward him, rippling with spears and flags. Thousands of Fellowship soldiers marched endlessly toward him, all in full battle array. The Venyarohirrim set his jaw, then led his horse in a trot toward the horde.

"Who comes?" Eldarion muttered to Aragost, gesturing toward the distant rider that approached them.

"Dacil?" Eorlmer offered tentatively, dreading that he was correct.

The Belgorian king nodded. "So I thought. So, the traitor believes he can trick us again?" Eldarion narrowed his eyes, "I have a surprise for you, horseman." He whipped his head around to Eorlmer. "Captain, you know what you must do."

"Yes, sir."

A moment later, Dacil rode up alongside the three soldiers. "Sirs, the Dunedain lie open in the Dead Marshes!"

"We have been told, General," Eldarion growled in a bored tone.

"By whom, sir?"

"That is not important for you to know," the King muttered, subtly signaling to Eorlmer, who drew a dagger from behind his back. "What is important, however," Eldarion continued, as Eorlmer began to ride slowly behind Dacil, "Is that we have been told what you are up to."

"What?" Dacil cried incredulously, feigning innocence.

Eorlmer frantically made eye contact with his commander. He saw that Dacil's eyes betrayed the fear he felt, but just barely. Eorlmer pointed the blade of the knife at Eldarion's back and raised one eyebrow slightly, but Dacil sighed and shook his head slightly.

Eorlmer was shocked that his General actually wanted him to commit what he had been ordered. Then, the dark reality set in. Even if Eorlmer killed Eldarion right now, the plan would be utterly ruined. It would accomplish nothing.

And so, screaming with rage, frustration, and anguish, Eorlmer thrust upward with his blade.

Dacil's eyes widened, then, mercifully, closed. Without a sound, he slowly slid from his hitting the ground almost gently.

Eldarion whirled to face his army.

"That," he cried, gesturing to the body, "Is the penalty for treason in Belgor! Let it be known that the Fellowship is no place for liars and scum like him!"

He spat with contempt on Dacil's body. "Ride on, Fellowship!"

As the army surged forward, none noticed the look of pain that crossed Eorlmer's face as he saluted his former general.

The sun had risen several hours ago above Rivendell, forcing the vampires in the Council Room to make their way as carefully as possible out of the enclosed area, one of the few vampire renovations to the old fortress. They were forced to take an alternate, covered hallway that led to the main section of Rivendell, where they faded into the murky half-light.

Celebdraug gestured to Draylen to join her and Mordae, which he more than obligingly did. The three made their way into the training room, which was filled with mock-weapons, weights, and other fitness apparatus.

"Nice place you got set up here," Mordae commented to Draylen.

"Yeah, it's a good place to mess around in when you're bored," the vampire concurred.

Celebdraug strode to the training weapons and hefted a padded wooden broadsword. She gave it a twirl, then nodded in approval.

"Pretty realistic."

"It should be," Draylen said with a small smile of pride as he trotted to her side, pulling a staff from the arsenal, "I made these myself."

"Impressive," Celebdraug said, whipping the blade around at the vampire's head.

Draylen tossed his weapon to the other hand and braced it against his leg. The sword smashed into the staff, rocking it back a bit, but not striking its wielder.

"Nice block," Mordae complimented as he pulled the longest staff from its place. He gave it a few twirls, then dropped into a fighting stance, holding the weapon evenly in both hands, the point aimed at Celebdraug.

"Excellently made, I might add."

Draylen gave a slight bow, "I have no life."

The elves laughed, and then suddenly, Celebdraug whirled her blade up and over Draylen, straight down at Mordae's head.

Her cousin danced back and counter-swung, knocking the sword back toward Draylen, then leaped forward and whipped the back end of the staff at Celebdraug. The other elf let her sword continue in the arc Mordae had pushed it into and brought it smashing down onto the tip of his staff, driving it into the ground.

With two dull thuds, Draylen struck first Celebdraug, then Mordae, in the back of the head with his own staff.

"I win," the vampire said with a fanged grin.

"Cheater!" Celebdraug cried.

Draylen shrugged and swung at her again.

Celebdraug blocked the attack, reached behind her, and hurled a training knife from its case into the vampire's stomach.

"Now I win," Celebdraug growled playfully.

Mordae dropped to the ground, kicked out Celebdraug's legs, swept Draylen's weapon and legs out from under him with his staff, executed a graceful front flip, then bowed low.

"I win."

"Showoff," Draylen hissed.

"That's what I always say," Celebdraug agreed.

"You guys are just jealous," Mordae countered, idly brushing the tip of his staff with his palm.

Draylen and Celebdraug made eye contact, and the two grinned mischievously. With a battle cry, they launched themselves at Mordae, quickly knocking away his weapon, then tackling him, and finally sitting on top of him and beating him lightly with their fists.

"Have mercy!" Mordae cried, squirming in a futile attempt to liberate himself from the captivity Draylen and Celebdraug held him in.

"Come on, Mr. Fancy pants," Celebdraug mocked, poking Mordae repeatedly in the forehead with her finger, "You can take us both."

Mordae let out a cry of phony rage as Draylen began to scrawl runes on the elf's head with a nearby quill.

Finally, after the vampire had completed his job, Celebdraug rolled off of her cousin, and the two admired their handiwork.

Scribbled across Mordae's forehead were ancient runes, similar to the Tengwar, the writing of the elves, that stated, simply, 'Mordae is a hobbit kisser.'

The elf rubbed vigorously at the writing, but to no avail.

Draylen grinned evilly. "Elven ink. Stays on for about three days."

"I'm going to kill you both," Mordae growled, not quite sure if he meant it or not.

Celebdraug tossed Draylen his staff and picked up her broadsword.

"Bring it."

Glorfindel awoke as he was thrown roughly to the ground, sending a sharp pain through his arm where he landed. The elf opened his eyes, but saw nothing. He could feel canvas on his face, and figured that they had him blindfolded. Ropes, elven, if he was correct, bit into his wrists and ankles as several pairs of hands drug him harshly over rugged stones. He could hear voices speaking in hushed tones, Common Speech, but with traces of accents he had never heard before.

What disturbed him beyond all the confusion, however, was the unmistakable sound of screaming. And not just in the Common Tongue. In elvish. Voices betraying unimaginable pain and anguish. And they grew louder as Glorfindel was drug further, now pounding down sharp steps that cut into him with each fall.

Finally, after several agonizing minutes of this travel, Glorfindel felt himself falling. After a good three-meter fall – sending more pain up the same arm, which he was quite sure was broken by now – he felt that he was alone. The elf slid across his cell with his feet, finding it only large enough for him to sit against any of the round walls.

Now he sat in silence, listening to the sound of water dripping from cracks, vermin scurrying past, and the muffled cries of other prisoners. Glorfindel rubbed his good shoulder against the wall, feeling the stones through a tear in his cloak.

He could not recognize the rock, other than that it came from a mountain, if he was correct. Glorfindel racked his brain, seeing Middle Earth in his mind. He could not be in the Misty Mountains; it was not nearly cold enough. The temperature, at least, what little he could feel in the air around him, as well as the distance that he would have been taken, ruled out Rhun as well.

The opposite climate, as well as the distance, ruled out Mordor. It was not nearly hot enough, and Mordor was halfway across the continent from where he was captured. To the northwest was Arnor – Ramgost, Glorfindel corrected himself – but that seemed almost out of the question. As far as any of his sources knew, the vampires tended to avoid the mountains to the north. Too much residual Numenorian blood-force, he supposed.

This left him with the southern Riddermark, or whatever in Udun they were calling it these days. This final decision made sense to Glorfindel. The climate was cool, but not freezing, and dry, which designated the absence of any large bodies of water. It would also place him close to the area where he was captured, as well as near to Mordor and Drownore, two places he definitely did not want to be.

Nearly two thousand leagues from his trial-beleaguered best friend, Mordae made his way out of the dark halls of the vampires and into the glow of the forest.

The massive elf leaned against the railing of a balcony in Rivendell, gazing out into light, dimmed greatly by the forest around the fortress.

He was sweaty and somewhat short of breath, thanks to his nearly two hour long duel with Draylen and Celebdraug, who now sat together in some dim area of Rivendell, doing Illúvatar knows what, Mordae thought to himself.

The elf shook his head and smiled slightly, he should not be filling his head with such accusations, as fun as they were. He exhaled deeply, clearing his mind, and began to pray.

_Hail Illúvatar, Creator and Sustainer, Father and Friend. I praise You for guiding us to this place, and though I have not yet deemed Your exact purpose for doing so, I know that You have everything planned exactly according to how it should be._

_I ask that you continue to guard us against Your enemies, and keep our swords and minds sharp against their evil._

_I ask also that You be with our friends, wherever they may be, and give them comfort..._

Because there was nothing better for him to do, Glorfindel attempted to use his limited mage powers to sense the other prisoners, but found his mind repressed by an overwhelming darkness.

The elf attempted to stand, but his bound legs would not support his weight. He wondered if Niphredil had escaped, and the thought of her facing this same torture brought him nearly to tears.

What would she do in a situation such as this? Glorfindel asked himself. She would not survive.

_Pray._

The thought hit him so suddenly and with such ringing clarity that he attempted to stand again, but once more collapsed, falling to his knees, which, he realized with an ironic smile, was exactly where he needed to be.

_Illúvatar, I cry out to You in my time of need..._


	40. Chapter XXXIX: Family Reunion

_**Chapter XXXIX: Family Reunion**_

"Was it really a wise idea to move into this forsaken place without Glorfindel?" Athfaë tentatively questioned Aragorn.

The Ranger/King strained his eyes into the fading light of the sunset as the army slowly picked its way across the dry sections of the marsh.

He turned his head toward Athfaë, his eyes cold, then shook his head dejectedly. "Not at all. I can barely see a league out."

"Nor can I," Gandalf, who walked beside the deposed king, agreed.

There was a moment of silence as the three attempted to make sense of the wetlands before them. Already the 'lights' had begun to appear. Eerie, pale, glowing orbs suspended all around the army, which stretched nearly two leagues long and one league wide.

"Where is he, anyway?" Athfaë wondered aloud.

Aragorn snorted derisively. "Probably back in Lorien, shirking his duties again."

The Venyarohirrim girl raised one eyebrow. "And you made him a general?"

"I was kidding." Aragorn shook his head. "I have no idea where he is."

Again, silence settled over the three. A few of the soldiers held conversations in hushed tones, and armor creaked, but the general tone was that of ominous silence. A few of the horses whinnied nervously as the sun began to sink behind the horizon, adding to the sense of suppressed terror that gripped the army.

The 'lights' had now taken reign over the night, casting ghostly shadows that took the mood even further to the edge.

"Damn those two," Aragorn hissed to himself, referring to Mordae and Celebdraug. "They had better have a really awesome plan, or I am going to have their heads above my throne."

Neither Gandalf nor Athfaë felt it necessary to point out Aragorn's current lack of a throne to hang them above.

Then suddenly, in the distance, there were more, different lights. These bobbed up and down a meter or so higher than the others, and glowed orange and red. They began small, and gradually grew.

"Torches," Athfaë whispered, stating that which had become evident.

"A _lot_ of torches," Gandalf added.

Aragorn thrust his own torch up into the sky and waved it back and forth, calling the army to a halt.

The other lights drew within two leagues of the Dunedain/Venyarohirrim army, then also ceased their advance.

Now, all sound in the marsh, save the nervous snorts of the horses, had ceased completely. The two armies stood in silence for several minutes, neither moving.

Finally, Athfaë leaned her head next to Aragorn's.

"What are they?"

The ranger shook his head. "No idea."

"Orcs? Remnant?"

Aragorn shrugged slightly.

Gandalf raised his staff up off of the ground, pointing the crystal atop it into the sky.

There was a crack, and the crystal burst into light, shedding a faint glow over the distant army, revealing three men standing a few hundred meters in front of the main mass. One of them bore a flag, on which was emblazoned a white tree with a red dragon wrapped around it.

"Belgor," Athfaë whispered, dark memories of the marauding hordes that had sacked her country for the last decade entering her mind.

"Eldarion," Aragorn murmured, taking a step forward.

Gandalf reached out and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder, stopping his progress.

"Was this Mordae and Celebdraug's plan?" the king whispered. "Have they convinced my son to join us?"

Athfaë began to argue, but Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "You two, come with me. We are going to go meet him."

The girl locked eyes with the wizard, and they both shrugged, then followed their commander.

Niphredil coughed as she sprinted through a small clearing that was clouded with smoke. A rancid smell assailed her nose, one that she was not familiar with, but that she recognized immediately.

_Death._

All around her, burning carts, smoldering ashes, and bodies lay strewn about.

She almost slid to a halt as she passed a body she thought she recognized.

_Butterbur?_

Niphredil did not stop, however, for three reasons; the first of which was that the longer it took for her to reach Mordae and Celebdraug, the greater the chance that Glorfindel would die.

The second was that she could not stand the sight of the bodies and the blood. Another terrifying note was that the faces of all of the victims in the massacre bore looks of extreme pain and horror. That was something Niphredil definitely did not want to investigate.

The final reason was that something, or rather, Someone, was telling her to run faster; that whoever had committed this atrocity was still around, waiting for more targets.

So on Niphredil pounded, leaving behind a horde of slightly confused vampire soldiers.

Halfway between the massive spaces that separated the two armies, Aragorn met with the other three leaders, whom he could now see clearly.

Eldarion led the three, dressed in full battle array, the battle crown/helmet of Gondor atop his head. He did not look into his father's eyes, but rather swept his gaze across all three of the Dunedain.

Aragorn also recognized Aragost, one of Eldarion's childhood friends, but the young man did not seem to recognize or acknowledge him.

The final soldier was one that Aragorn did not recognize, but he sensed that Athfaë did. She covered it however, for reasons that Aragorn figured were necessary for the undercover operation inside Gondor.

Twenty meters from one another, Eldarion held up his hand, signaling for Aragorn and his entourage to halt.

A pained look crossed Aragorn's face; he obviously wished to be closer to his son.

"Eldarion!" the deposed king cried. "Why do you stop your own father from drawing near?"

"Does the Numenorian general embrace the orc?" his son retorted harshly, drawing a smile from Aragost.

"Why do you come arrayed in battle against me?" Aragorn called.

"I have come to finish that which I began so many years ago," Eldarion replied, his face emotionless.

"My son!" Aragorn sounded angry. "Are you blind? The Remnant sits at our doorstep, yet you insist on battling your own father! Why?"

"Because, 'daddy'," Eldarion spat, "You would insist that we 'join forces and live in peace and harmony'. You are weak and out-dated. Do you see my army, what I have accomplished in a mere twenty years from your insignificant empire? You soldiers are not fit to even think of battling us. They should be our slaves. I am almost saddened that you have sunk so low as to join forces with the Venyarohirrim."

Athfaë clenched her fists, as did the man to Eldarion's left, the one Aragorn did not recognize.

Aragorn jumped on this opportunity. "It would appear to me that you, too, have employed their service."

"These are not Venyarohirrim," Eldarion chastised. "These are Belgorians like Aragost and I. They have seen the folly of their fathers' ways." He narrowed his eyes. "As have I."

This was a low blow, and Aragorn felt it deep inside his gut.

"Eldarion, you must understand..."

"You are weak," Eldarion interrupted, holding up a hand. "You are desperate. And I do not wish to hear any more of your whining. I hope to meet you on the battlefield so that I may kill you myself."

The young man turned and began to stalk away with his generals.

**"Eldarion!"** Gandalf thundered. The King of the Fellowship halted, glancing back over his shoulder.

**"Listen to reason, you fool!"**

Eldarion shook his head in mockingly. "Sad. I do not take orders from you, old fool. I will seek you in battle as well." With that, the Fellowship soldiers turned and marched back toward their armies.

"The last time I was called that, the man ended up with a Rohirrim shieldmaiden's sword through his face," Gandalf replied, referring to the Witch King.

"May he receive the same fate," Athfaë growled as she watched the three go.

_1,254,359...1,254,360...1,254,361..._

Glorfindel looked up suddenly as a noise interrupted his counting.

"Elf!" a rumbling voice called out.

"Uh...dwarf!" Glorfindel countered.

There was a pause.

"Huh?"

"I thought we were playing a fun game," Glorfindel called up from the bottom of his cell.

There was another, longer, pause.

_1,254,362...1,254,363...1,254,363_

Suddenly, Glorfindel heard several large objects sliding down toward him.

"Ooh! Visitors," the elf cried happily from under his sackcloth mask.

Three pairs of hands roughly took hold of him, hoisting him onto a plank, which was drawn up out of the cell.

Glorfindel felt himself dumped onto the floor, and then, once again, he had the pleasure of being dragged across the unforgiving stones of the ground.

After a few more minutes, and another flight of stairs, the elf was hefted up onto a cold table, where his hands were unbound from the ropes and placed into metal shackles on either side of the table, leaving him in a spread-eagle position.

Another long pause.

_1,254,364..._

The cloth was ripped from Glorfindel's face, allowing him to see for the first time in a full day. He squinted in the glare of the torchlight.

Standing above him was a massive orc. Uruk-hai, if Glorfindel was mistaken. From the golden runes on the breastplate, the elf determined that this was most likely the head of the Remnant orcs. Grishnákh, if his memory served him.

"Glorfindel," Grishnákh growled.

The elf gazed up at the twisted face.

"Are you my mommy?"

Pain shot up Glorfindel's arm as it stretched, pulled by one of many ropes attached to the elf.

This was going to be almost as fun as Council Meetings, Glorfindel decided.

As the Fellowship leaders made their way back toward the horde, Eorlmer dropped slightly behind the others. He raised his sword and spun in three times in the air, its silhouette visible against the flag that Aragost carried, then tapped it to his horn as he lowered it, an insignificant gesture to all but Athfaë.

"Hold the charge and the arrows," she cried urgently to Aragorn, who was walking a few meters in front of her.

The king did not turn, nor question her order, but continued walking.

"On the third trumpet, Eorlmer will lead our soldiers inside the Fellowship against the unsuspecting Belgorians," Athfaë insisted.

Aragorn stopped at this, nodding slowly.

"I pray for his success."


	41. Chapter XL: The Sky is Falling

_**Chapter XL: The Sky is Falling **_

Celebdraug and Draylen _were _sitting together, but not in some dark corner, and not exactly doing what Mordae had concocted in his mind.

The elf had been right on one accord, however; the more time Celebdraug spent with the slightly deranged vampire, the more attracted she became to him.

"So, you want a tour?" Draylen asked absent-mindedly.

"I used to live here," Celebdraug pointed out, smiling slightly.

"Oh, that's right..." the vampire trailed off.

"But I'd take one anyway," Celebdraug hurriedly added. "What else is there to do?"

Draylen's face brightened. "I can always show you our little additions, eh?"

"Sure." The elf hopped lightly to her feet and extended her hand. "Come, oh Great and Mighty Tour Guide. Show me the paths of thy treacherous domain."

"I like the 'Great and Mighty' part," Draylen commented, taking Celebdraug's hand and rising to his feet.

"Don't get used to it, Hobbit-Breath."

The vampire raised his eyebrows. "Let's stick with Mighty."

_"N'uma__1__,"_ Celebdraug argued, beginning to skip away, pulling Draylen with her. "We likes Hobbit-Breath."

"Fine, if we must." Draylen paused as he was dragged behind Celebdraug. "Hey, who's leading this tour?"

At the head of the three hundred fifty thousand soldiers that made up the entire bulk of the Fellowship army, Eldarion pointed his sword to Aragost.

"Lead the First Cavalry division to the west. Sweep full around to their side, so we can split their army in half."

The Fellowship General nodded, and rode west, toward the waiting one hundred thousand soldiers of the First Cavalry.

Eldarion turned now to Eorlmer.

"Congratulations, Captain. You are hereby promoted to General of the Fellowship."

"Thank you, my lord," Eorlmer murmured, his thoughts murderous.

"I need you to lead your men in the exact opposite attack as Aragorn. Go east, and hit directly mid-center of their east army."

The young, newly promoted General saluted smartly.

"Yes, sir!"

Eorlmer trotted his horse a half-mile down the stretch of infantry, before finally coming to the beginning of his cavalry.

He rode to the center of the men, then turned, preparing to give his best imitation of one of Dacil's motivational speeches.

However, before he could speak, one of the lieutenants cried out at him.

"You traitor! Get out of our sight!"

Eorlmer paused, thunderstruck, and then his front collapsed, tears beginning to stream down his face.

"My brothers," the young man, shouted, "I cannot live with what I have done. However, it is what Dacil wanted! He knew that if I did not kill him, all we have done would have been in vain. And so, by martyring himself, he has saved his country and us! I ask you to ensure that his death was not in vain! Many of us will fall, but we will die for our cause! Ride now, for Dacil, your brother! Ride for the sake of Middle Earth! On the third trumpet, we will crush the Fellowship dogs, which have so long oppressed us! Charge!"

Moved by his simple honesty, the soldiers of Isen Meares surged forward, swords drawn. Far from the horde, Eldarion raised his horn and gave a loud blast. The first trumpet.

Mordae snapped from his thoughts as he heard a door open behind him. The sun had nearly gone down, and, filtered through the trees, it seemed nearly as dark as the night.

The elf turned slowly, his right hand sliding to the dagger he constantly had fastened to the back of his belt. His hand stopped as he registered the intruder as Lynza, and he slowly let out his breath.

"A little high strung, are we?" the vampire asked with a smile.

Mordae shook his head resignedly. "All my friends are out there, fighting Illúvatar knows what, and I'm here, doing..." the elf trailed off.

"Doing your duty," Lynza completed Mordae's thought with her own interpretation. She glided to the railing beside him and leaned heavily against it.

Mordae sighed and let his hand drop from the hilt of the dagger. "It just seems so wrong," the elf complained. "I don't know why, but there's just this...sinking feeling in my stomach. Something's terribly wrong, and there's nothing I can do to fix it."

Lynza put her hand on Mordae's shoulder. "If you were in command of an army, and had the choice to move a unit and win the battle, but it could result in your own death, would you?"

The elf looked warily at her hand, then his purple eyes met her deep black pools. "In a heartbeat."

"That is what Aragorn is doing. If you stay and defend them, they will survive, but Mornië may acquire the rest of the rings; therefore your defense would simply be prolonging the inevitable. If you secure the rings, there is hope for the survivors."

Mordae slammed his hand down on the railing, lightly, so he would not destroy the architecture. The elf stood in silence, head bowed for a moment, and then he raised his gaze again.

"You should be right less often."

The vampire smiled and gave a small courtesy. "The curse of a woman, I suppose."

Mordae laughed slightly and shook his head, then paused. "Where's Celebdraug?"

"With Draylen."

"I know," Mordae clarified, "I mean, what have those two been doing for the last...day?"

Lynza shrugged. "Are we old enough to know?"

"That's what I'd like to find out."

There was a short silence.

"Not that I'm some kind of..."

Lynza cut off Mordae's unnecessary explanation. "My, you clarify things too much."

"Habit," the elf sighed. "I work with royalty too much."

Lynza laughed. "Why do you think I led a revolution?"

"My subjects!" Eldarion boomed, his voice echoing in the stillness of the marsh to the massive infantry he led.

"Our triumph is at hand! Or enemies lie before us, and they are weak! We shall crush them like the insects they are, beneath our feet! Now, make haste, for victory and glory are upon us!

With an angry sounding bellow, the Fellowship sprang forward and surged onto the islands toward the waiting Dunedain army. At the head, Eldarion lifted his horn again. The second trumpet.

Draylen and Celebdraug had completed their tour in the highest spire of Rivendell, giving them an unparalleled view of the surrounding forest.

The two stood at one of the large windows, gazing out at the glorious scene before them. The sun had just slipped behind the mountain, and the moon was beginning to rise. Celebdraug absently flicked a small rock from the sill, watching it plummet down to one of the balcony edges, bounce off, and complete its descent to the forest floor.

A moment later, Mordae's head leaned out over the balcony edge, his eyes tracking up the spire and finally coming to rest on Celebdraug, who smiled innocently and waved.

Mordae disappeared for a moment, then returned, holding a small rock in his hand. He hurled it with all his might, but it still fell a few meters short of his cousin, who stuck out her tongue and disappeared back into the spire.

Draylen smiled and held out his hand, in which a dozen small rock fragments sat.

"Where'd you find those?" Celebdraug questioned, eagerly taking half of them.

"Stuff breaks," Draylen explained, gesturing over his shoulder to a slightly chipped pillar.

Celebdraug smiled, and the elf and vampire hurried to the sill again. Celebdraug whistled to Mordae, who appeared a moment later, a confused look on his face. As one, Celebdraug and Draylen hurled their stones down at the elf, who dove back under cover, no doubt cursing them as he did so.

Draylen glanced over at Celebdraug and smiled.

"We should hang out more."

Celebdraug nodded in agreement. "People don't hate us enough yet. I think together, we could make them."

"Yeah." The vampire leaned over the edge, scanning for Mordae, who had obviously given up and either gone inside to hide or was heading for the spire as they spoke to deliver retribution.

Suddenly, he stood straight, his eyes gleaming.

Celebdraug raised an eyebrow.

"We should get married!"

The elf backed away slowly in mock-horror. "I've only known you for a day and a half. That's a little fast, don't you think?"

"No, not because I like you," Draylen explained, grinning mischievously. "We could have elfpires!"

Celebdraug cocked her head to the side in confusion. "Elfpires?"

"Elf-vampires. Elfpires."

Celebdraug looked at Draylen for a moment, her eyes searching his face. Then, she doubled over laughing.

"You," she gasped between breaths, "Are a complete moron."

Draylen bowed dignifiedly. "Why, thank you."

There was a pause as Celebdraug caught her breath.

"So," Draylen offered cautiously, "Is that a no?"

Again, Celebdraug burst into laughter.

Finally, she walked back over to the vampire, who was leaning against the windowsill, facing into the chamber. She gave a half turn and landed her back against the sill with a dull thud. Her blazing red eyes met Draylen's almost ominous black.

"I wouldn't say that was a yes," the elf said with a smile, "But would you be willing to take it as a 'maybe in a few years, if you prove yourself worthy'?"

Draylen smiled, showing his long white fangs.

"Nah."

Celebdraug punched the vampire's shoulder, causing him to give a fake whimper and inch away from her. The elf reached out, took his gloved hand, and pulled him back. The two stood in silence for a moment, their hands together.

"Ya know," Draylen muttered finally. "It's kind of pointless to hold hands if we're both wearing gloves."

"I don't want to get vampire germs," Celebdraug mockingly explained.

"I see."

Before either of the two could say any more, the door burst open, revealing Mordae, who had dressed hurriedly in his covert-operations fatigues. He held an arsenal of pebbles taken from the forest floor in his hands and in food packs on his side.

The massive elf let loose a battle cry, and the other two glanced nervously at one another. Then, they charged forward to meet Mordae in a battle unlike any other seen in Rivendell.

"My brothers, the time has come!" Aragorn rode back and forth on his gleaming white stallion before the Dunedain army, sword raised to the sky.

"The time for selflessness! The time for strength! The time for valor! The time to take back our lands, our families, our pride! The time for victory is no! Forth, servants of light! Forth for Illúvatar!"

The mixed group of elves and men responded with a roar of enthusiasm, and as the King began to charge down the paths through the black waters, they followed crying "For battle! For victory!"

Suddenly, in the midst of the massive wrestling match, Draylen sat up.

"Where's Lynza?"

Mordae and Celebdraug paused as well.

"I don't know," Mordae said with a shrug. She was with me for a little while, then she said that there was something she had to do."

"How long ago was that?" Draylen asked.

Mordae squinted slightly. "About...ten minutes ago."

"Was she dressed in her armor?" the vampire inquired, beginning to rise.

"Hey, now that you mention it..."

Draylen bolted to the sill. Far in the distance, he could see a lone bat winging northward.

"She's trying to leave without me!" Draylen cried.

"Stubborn little bat," Celebdraug growled.

Draylen was nearly hysterical.

"We can't let her go on her own! Vrayon will bring who-knows-how-many soldiers, and...and they'll capture her...they'll torture her...they'll find out where we are..."

Celebdraug put her hand on the vampire's shoulder. "Calm down, Draylen."

She turned to Mordae. "Good thing you're already suited up. Follow her, and we'll be right behind you."

"We will?" Draylen sounded slightly incredulous.

"Yes," Celebdraug grabbed his hand and began to pull him down the spire. "I hope you're up for a bit of fun."

The vampire's dark eyes glowed.

"Always."

1 No


	42. Chapter XLI: Preparations

_**Chapter XLI: Preparations**_

"Where are the Udunaedos!?" the massive orc thundered again in Glorfindel's ear.

"Thy mother was a filthy hobbit."

Most special operations soldiers had been trained to respond with just their name, rank, and allegiance, but Glorfindel found it much easier to just respond with an insult. He figured that if they were going to torture him, he might as well not make it much fun for them.

The elf had decided nearly an hour ago that he could no longer feel where it hurt. It seemed as though every nerve in his body was screaming in pain at him. But he focused on Niphredil, thoughts of Lorien, and better days of old.

The orc leaned menacingly over Glorfindel's face, his rancid breath causing the elf to hold his breath.

"You do realize, elf, that I will feel no regret in killing you if you do not tell us what we want?"

"Thou dost realize, orc, that thy breath could slay a Nazgul? Thou should give up this rack device and simply breath on thy prisoners."

A giant, corpse-like fist slammed into Glorfindel's gut, causing him to attempt to double over, which only strained his already over-extended limbs.

"Cease," a smooth baritone voice rang melodiously through the torture chamber.

The torturer took two steps back and stood at attention beside the rack.

A black-cloaked figure swept gracefully to Glorfindel's side. The hood was removed with great poise, revealing the purple-tinted skin of a Drow. Glorfindel's shining blue eyes searched the unmistakable face. The red eyes, blue flame tattoos crossing his face and the top of his head, and generally condescending demeanor could only belong to one man.

_"Mornië," _Glorfindel grunted._ "Pleasure making your acquaintance. You know, I must say that your torture services are below average for a power-hungry psycho-bastard. In most cases that I have encountered..."_

The elf screamed and arched his back as every pain receptor in his body _did _fire all at once, ordered to do so by the Drow's incredible mind powers.

He fell back heavily against the table as the pain ceased as suddenly as it had come on, sweat dripping from his forehead.

"It is a pleasure making thy acquaintance as well, Glorfindel. I must say that thou art the epitome of why I should rule Middle Earth. To cleanse it of fools like thee."

_"Oh, that was actually pretty good. Speak Elvish, you moron."_

Again, pain shot through Glorfindel's body.

Mornië smiled viciously. "Let us begin, shall we?"

Mordae powered onward, his feet moving in a silent rhythm over the leaf-laden forest floor as he raced the bat flying above him. As far as he could tell, Lynza had no idea he was below her, only a few meters to the vampire's left.

The ground below the elf suddenly began to shift downward, allowing Mordae to accelerate, charging ahead and passing the flying bat.

He hoped to arrive in Lvrast before Lynza did, so he could set up a good sniper position for Celebdraug, Draylen, and himself. He carried his dragon heartstring bow and a full quiver of the elves' special silent arrows, perfect for sniping and stealth missions such as these.

The elf leaped over a low lying log, hit the ground, rolled, and came up sprinting again, readjusting the bow, which he had knocked slightly askew. He prayed that Lynza was taking the most direct route; seeing as she could fly over whatever obstacles lay on the ground, and that he could simply follow the path she was flying on to arrive at the abandoned Remnant barracks.

Mordae swore as he skidded to a stop at the bank of a small river. Buckleberry, where the hobbits had long ago crossed over to escape the Nazgul; a savior to them, but a hindrance to the elf.

Granted, it was not exceptionally wide, but Mordae knew there was no way he could leap it. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder where he knew Lynza was approaching from.

Abandoning all reason, Mordae executed the first iota of a plan that appeared in his adrenaline-clouded mind. Securing his bow and sealing the canvas lid on the quiver of stealth arrows, Mordae dove into the meandering current, and in a matter of moments, his long, powerful strokes carried him to the other shore, where he stumbled to his feet and continued his journey.

Draylen burst through the door separating his quarters form that which he shared with the elves, and immediately regretted it. A pillow whipped through the air, slamming into the wall beside his head. Celebdraug stood aggressively, an angry look on her face, wearing her chain mail and light clothing, but not her outer tunic.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you to knock?" the elf growled.

Draylen, who had backed up behind the door to give Celebdraug the privacy she wanted – and to avoid getting his head caved in by a flying pillow projectile – shrugged.

"You're wearing clothes, for crying out loud," the vampire whined.

A moment later, Celebdraug stuck her head around the corner of the door, her black tunic, pants, and, of course, cape, in their proper places on her body.

"But what if I wasn't?"

"But you were!" Draylen protested incredulously.

"Forget it," Celebdraug muttered, backing away from the door.

"Blood of the ancestors," Draylen muttered under his breath. "Somebody has issues."

Celebdraug spun her head, the elf's flaming red eyes boring into Draylen's face.

"My issues are my own personal business."

Draylen raised his hands in surrender, making a mental note to question Mordae about Celebdraug's obvious discontent.

There was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, and then Celebdraug nodded to the weapon Draylen had mounted on his back.

"What in Illúvatar's name is that?"

The vampire whipped the contraption expertly from his back, pointing it downward at the wooden floor.

_"Vrylna."_

"Vrwhat?"

_"Vrylna,"_ Draylen repeated, holding it up slightly.

"Why does...vampirish...sound like you just took as many consonants as you could and smashed them all together?" Celebdraug asked, banging her head slightly with the pillow she had picked up from the ground.

"Because we did," Draylen offered tentatively. He hoped humor would disarm whatever accidental sores he had tread upon. "To make it inconvenient for elves. Too many vowels in Quenya, if you ask me."

Celebdraug smiled slightly, and Draylen unconsciously exhaled.

The vampire took a step toward Celebdraug, holding the _vrylna_ out to her to examine. He also figured that the elf's love of weaponry would take her mind off of whatever it was her mind was on.

"It's a combination between the elvish longbow, the orcish crossbow, and a human saw blade," Draylen explained. He dropped his hand down to his side and plucked a string of three silver disks from a vast gauntlet of ammunition on his belt. The disks were approximately ten centimeters across, edged, and curved into a sort of s-shaped circle.

"You place the trio of disks, the_ lizcan_, onto the string..." the vampire took the _vrylna _back from Celebdraug and put his words to action, hooking the small clasps on the back of the _lizcan _onto the bowstring, which was about three-quarters of a meter long and held horizontally over a piece of intricately carved wood running across Draylen's left arm where he held it.

"Turn it like a longbow..." the vampire flipped the weapon ninety degrees, aiming it rather like the elvish longbows that Mordae and Celebdraug used at a knot in a tree twenty meters out the window.

Draylen reached his right hand up to a small slide attached to the bowstring and running the entire length down his left arm.

"And let her rip." Draylen jerked hard on the slide, snapping it back toward his shoulder. The slide caused the bowstring – which Celebdraug now perceived was much longer and entwined in the three gears that marked the top, bottom, and middle of the weapon – to wind, tighten, and then release with a surprising amount of force.

The three disks sailed off the end of the _vrylna_, separated into a triangle with a quarter-meter between them, and slammed into the knothole, slicing three thin cuts in the tree.

Celebdraug nodded, impressed.

"Not much power compared to a longbow. Doesn't have the same accuracy, either," the elf noted. "Still impressive."

"It's not made for sniping," Draylen countered. In one fluid motion, his hand dropped to his side, loaded another _lizcan,_ rotated, and fired the _vrylna _again, this time high into the night sky.

"It was designed for launching into oncoming airborne hordes, which we have to fight against quite often. Power isn't really necessary when you're trying to cut through bats," Draylen offered.

"True, true."

The vampire gestured out to the three shining disks, which maintained their flight for quite some time.

"If you get twenty vampires all launching into swarms, the disks sail around, ricochet off one another, and generally just rip incoming hordes to shreds."

Celebdraug nodded sagely. "Ingenious. And I suppose you designed these?"

Draylen nodded modestly. "I was on the team of designers, yes." He slung the weapon expertly onto his back. "Now, as I demonstrated, it can be used to fire into ground targets, but as you pointed out, it isn't very accurate. The distance between the disks widens at a one to ten meter ratio. The farther the shot, the larger the spread. Efficient for hordes, but not single targets."

"Bring it anyway," Celebdraug suggested, slinging her longbow and sheathing her broadsword.

"I plan to. Better to carry a heavier load than be carried back as ashes. Or in your case, a body."

"Well put," Celebdraug said sarcastically with a smile. "Are you ready?"

"I was born ready," Draylen announced dramatically, striking a heroic yet ridiculous pose.

Celebdraug shook her head sadly. "I'm going to throw up."

Dilotè glanced up sharply from the mat where she sat cross-legged in her tent as she heard a noise and detected an intruder.

A torch poked through the canvas entrance, waving erratically.

"Flaming!" a male voice cried, a ridiculous growling sound.

The Halda'ohtar shook her head slightly. "Come."

Turdú's smiling head followed the torch.

"Am I welcome here?" he asked, the amused tone not yet faded from his voice.

"Of course," Dilotè sounded slightly incredulous.

Turdú raised his eyebrows, but extinguished his torch and entered. The Drow glanced back and forth, listened intently to the outside noise of the other Drow troops, then knelt beside Dilotè.

_"Listen,"_ he murmured, _"I want to explain what happened the other night."_

"There is no need to explain," Dilotè replied in the Common Tongue. "Thou art a soldier, blindly following orders, just as I."

_"But that's just it," _Turdú insisted. _"You don't just blindly follow orders. You make a stand for what you believe in, how you were raised. I admire that."_

Dilotè smiled half-heartedly and gazed in near astonishment at her commander.

_"I slashed your flag," _she said disbelievingly. _"I ignored you for the last three days. Yet, you still don't get it through your thick little skull."_

Turdú opened his mouth in teasing shock.

_"Was that an insult?"_

Dilotè grinned viciously at him.

_"I suppose it was."_

The Drow General smiled.

_"Good, we're getting somewhere. Insult is a step above ignoring me."_

Dilotè shrugged in agreement.

_"I've decided something," _Turdú continued. His voice was hushed and slightly strained, causing Dilotè to listen more intently to what he had to say.

_"There is no way that I'm going to let Mornië use you like that. Of course, I can't exactly stop the man; he's a slight bit more powerful than I."_

Dilotè smiled faintly and nodded, enjoying what she was hearing.

_"However, he's not powerful enough for me to let him kill you when he's done with you. I need you. You're far too good of a soldier and too good of a person for me to lose you because of his stupidity."_

_"Treason," _Dilotè whispered with a faint giggle.

Turdú shrugged. _"So you'll help me. And then, once I think Mornië is getting close to being through with you, I'll get you out of here, back to your people. I don't care how many elites you need to penetrate Remnant lines or how many worthless orcs you have to kill; you're not going to die to a murderous scumbag."_

Dilotè was shocked. _"Have you lost your faith in the Cause?"_

_"Of course not. The Drow are destined to rule the world. Mornië is destined to lead us to that greatness. Whether he is destined to continue to lead us after we have acquired that power..."_ Turdú trailed off. _"The man is a genius. But he is not worthy to rule a people. Command hordes, yes. But rule, never."_

The General stopped as he heard approaching soldiers.

_"For now," _he added hurriedly, _"Do you trust me?"_

Dilotè paused, considering Turdú's plea. The Drow seemed genuine enough. He obviously cared about her.

She nodded, including, _"But there's no chance between us, right?" _The woman referred to the remote instance of a slightly romantic possibility.

Turdú inhaled through clenched teeth and raised his eyebrows. _"I suppose not." _He offered her a large grin.

"Hail!" a deep voice called from outside the tent.

"Hail!" Turdú responded, rising to his feet.

A black-cloaked elite reconnaissance soldier entered, saluting first the General, and then the Captain.

"My lords," the soldier barked in his deep voice, "The battle has begun. It looks to be as though they will do a fine job of tearing one another apart. We can approach from our position, westward, and strike them in the center. The marshlands make for rough travel, but if they navigated them, so can we."

"Agreed, sergeant. I will make ready the troops. How long until thou sayest that we should attack?"

The sergeant paused, taken slightly aback at the though of him making such a monumental decision. He cleared his throat to cover after a moment.

"Three hours, sir, and they will be nearing the most intense fighting of the battle. They will have fully merged forces by then."

"Three hours it is, then," Turdú agreed. "Thank thee, sergeant. Dismissed."

The reconnaissance agent saluted, spun on his heel, and sauntered off into the camp to enjoy a brief respite from his duties.

Turdú glanced over his shoulder at Dilotè, who had begun to grin at the prospect of the excellently planned ambush that would soon occur.

The General smiled menacingly. _"It's time to show the infidels who is really in charge."_


	43. Chapter XLII: The Battle of the Dead Mar...

_**Chapter XLII: The Battle of the Dead Marshes: Phase One**_

Aragost turned his horse northward, aiming toward the Dunedain along with the one hundred thousand cavalry members of the First Cavalry. He gritted his teeth, set his jaw, and drew his shining sword, raising it to the dark, star-filled sky.

The cavalry let out a roar, and Aragost nudged his horse forward, weaving back and forth around the dark pools of water.

Ahead and to the east, Eldarion raised his horn to his lips and sounded the third trumpet, signifying that all troops were in full charge.

Eorlmer made his move.

The Venyarohirrim cavalry jumped into action as Eorlmer waved his blade in circles over his head, spurring their horses faster. The young General angled his horse northeast, on a direct intercept line with the center of the First Cavalry. Behind him, the rest of his troops followed, swords drawn, yet mysteriously quiet.

Eldarion slowed his pace to a stop, as did the soldiers behind the King. They watched in disbelief as the Venyarohirrim cavalry swept past them, nearly a half league away. The thunder of the hoof beats drove in their ears; a pounding, overwhelming sound. The horde raced past for over a minute before Eldarion finally realized what was occurring.

"No," he murmured to himself in disbelief, dropping to his knees on the damp marshland.

At the head of the Dunedain, Aragorn smiled broadly at Athfaë, who returned his smile, lighting up her face.

"I told you we would come through," the girl cried gleefully.

"Indeed you did," Aragorn affirmed, nodding. "Now it is up to us to support them."

He turned his back on the Fellowship and the scenes unfolding behind him and cried out to the rows of archers behind him.

"Fire on the west group! Do not fire upon the east, they are allies!"

The hissing of several hundred arrows launched by the elven archers drowned out his words. Instead of the usual volleys that the majority of the armies employed, elves fired in solid waves of wood, sending a constant rain of death down upon their targets.

The cries of the Fellowship cavalry rang out over the otherwise still marshland as soldier after soldier fell to the elven darts. The spearmen positioned in the front of the Dunedain, tensed, prepared for the impact of the cavalry. The arches behind them fired even more heavily, slowing the advance.

Finally, the two forces smashed together with the sound of metal upon metal, grating in the ears of all who heard. The screams of the wounded and dying now joined the utter chaos that was ensuing.

Aragorn turned to Athfaë suddenly as he took heed of the leader of the Venyarohirrim Fellowship division.

"Who is the leader?" the deposed king inquired.

"Eorlmer, one of Dacil's old friends. I used to know him quite well, actually. A good friend, excellent soldier."

"Where is Dacil?"

A look of clouded worry covered Athfaë's face. "He had gone to reunite with the Fellowship, so he could lead the charge. He must not have made it in time."

Aragorn shrugged nonchalantly. "I am sure he is in good health."

Athfaë nodded warily.

"East division, forward!" Aragorn cried.

Gandalf glanced questioningly at the king.

"The defection leaves their east flank completely open," the Ranger explained. "They will either be forced to fight two fronts, or spread themselves thin enough for us to penetrate and force them to fight on four or more."

"Shall I lead them?" the wizard asked, watching the charge of the defecting cavalry intently.

"But of course."

Gandalf broke his gaze, nodded, and galloped off toward the head of the east division.

"West cavalry, flank!"

The horde of Dunedain horsemen and women thundered off toward the west, and then began to loop around, aiming for the Fellowship cavalry's flank.

Eldarion slammed his face into his hands. He had always mocked his father's reputation as a military genius. But as he watched the noose tighten around his remaining cavalry, the King had to admit. They would need a miracle now.

Or sheer force and anger. His infantrymen were nearly triple the size of the Dunedain army, and, though not as naturally skilled as the elves – which Eldarion was sure were quite scarce – they had all trained for this moment. Besides, the Venyarohirrim had always been known for having great cavalries and terrible infantry. His troops would fare well.

Not to mention the siege weapons. Eldarion had a military genius streak instilled in him as well, through his father. He had ordered the defensive siege weapons of Minas Tirith made mobile, and had ordered the creation of several dozen more. They would certainly put a dent in the clustered Dunedain army, which did not suspect the attack.

It had to be now. Eldarion whirled to his artillerymen.

"Fire! Fire! Fire!"

"Eorlinglas!"

Eorlmer's cry echoed over the din of the battle as he struck down the first Fellowship cavalryman.

An instant later, the rest of the Venyarohirrim smashed full into the Fellowship horses, battering their way bloodily onward.

_Left. Right. Left. Right._

Eorlmer slashed back and forth with his blade as he thundered onward, widening the hole in the utterly distraught Fellowship cavalry.

Across the chaotic horde, the Dunedain cavalry drove into the western half of the Fellowship army, pressing them thinner and thinner, easing the burden that the Dunedain spearmen had to face.

Eldarion caught a glimmer of movement to his right, and his eye caught the whirl of a red braid.

"Athfaë?" he called over the screams and metallic crashes.

The girl looked over her shoulder for a moment, then turned back to strike down another Fellowship cavalryman. It was indeed Athfaë.

Eorlmer choked, not wishing to be the one to inform the girl of her love's death. He made the decision to withhold that knowledge until the battle was complete; it would be far too massive of a burden for the girl at the moment.

The young man's thoughts were interrupted by the scream of one of his soldiers.

"Incoming!"

The thud of the gargantuan stones smashing into the ground rattled the teeth of the entire Dunedain army. Aragorn felt the grating in his bones, and a glimmer of fear raced through him, accelerating his heart and breath.

The screams of the victims rang out over the battlefield as the first volley blasted into the Dunedain army and Venyarohirrim cavalry. The massive rocks were punctuated by volleys of arrows, then more of the deadly stones rained onto the hapless soldiers.

Aragorn exhaled deeply. If he did not order his troops to move _now_, they would all fall before they were in blade range of their enemies.

The deposed King's mind wandered momentarily to the scores of years ago, when he sat with his young son in one of the many large rooms of Minas Tirith. The two played war strategy games for hours, Aragost passing on as much knowledge as he could muster down to his son. Now, more than ever, the Ranger regretted it. Eldarion had performed the maneuver that Aragorn had emphasized the most. Force the opponent into a decision that was far less than optimal.

The bone-rattling crunch of the second stone volley shook Aragorn from his reminiscing.

"Infantry, charge!"

Eldarion exhaled as he watched the Dunedain army surge forward, wrapping itself around the Fellowship cavalry and separating to flank Eldarion's own cavalry.

The King made the decision that it would not be nearly that easy.

He held up a hand for his runners, a half dozen of whom arrived nearly instantly atop their horses.

"I want the siege weapons to fire on the main battleground. I do not care about our own losses; they will be insignificant in comparison to Aragorn's. Tell them to concentrate fire in the middle, and use more discretion once the infantry mixes in with them. Send the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Divisions to attack front, east, and west of the group to the east." The King gestured to the eastern half of the Dunedain army, which had been moving to attack the unprotected flank.

The scouts nodded emphatically and bolted into the army of soldiers.

"As for the rest of you," Eldarion cried to his infantry, "We will wrap ourselves around the main battle. Attack the fringes; keep the soldiers in the middle! Our siege weapons will ensure that they suffer heavily for their treachery."

The Fellowship infantry surged forward as the massive stones led the way.

Aragorn moved with the grace and skill of a well the well-seasoned warrior that he was. His ancient blade, Narcil, hissed through the air as though it had a mind of its own, blocking and slashing, attacking and defending, all the while inflicting casualties on all sides of the Ranger. Aragorn ducked the swing of a Fellowship infantryman, which had just arrived, and thrust his blade through the man's stomach, sending him crashing to the ground. He leaped back as a Venyarohirrim cavalrywoman thundered past, bowling over two more infantrymen and driving the rider off one of the dwindling number of Fellowship cavalry horses.

He heard the cry of another soldier as the man tripped and fell into the inky blackness of the marsh water and was swallowed up, a greenish mist swirling where he had fallen. A Venyarohirrim cavalryman suddenly dropped from sight, sending a dark splash into the air, the stinging water soaking all nearby.

Aragorn swore to himself. Only the elven warriors with the Dunedain seemed to be able to see the waters, yet even still, the chaos of the battle often pressed them into the pools, never to be seen again. The Ranger wondered how many soldiers would fall to the marshes and not the blades of enemies, and the thought seemed to make the night even darker.

A giant siege-stone drove into the ground twenty meters from Aragorn, the shockwave knocking him backward. He felt his arm submerge in one of the dark pools, and his heavily armored body sliding backward. His face went under, and he could feel the terrible green mist enveloping him. He tried to cry out, but the water was suffocating him.

Suddenly, strong hands were grabbing his own, hauling him from the oppressive darkness. The King sputtered, spewing black water from his mouth. Clearing the moisture from his eyes, Aragorn gazed up into the face of his savior.

Eldarion gazed conceitedly down at his father, who sat, half drenched, weak.

Aragorn rubbed his eyes again, thinking he was hallucinating; his son remained blade on his neck.

"Call them off," Eldarion ordered calmly.

Aragon spat more water from his lungs. "What?" he groaned in disbelief.

"I said, call them off. I saved you, now you do me a favor. Call them off."

The deposed King bowed his head, defeated. He breathed deeply, clearing his lungs. Then, his gaze slowly rose to look upon his son. It was a face that Aragorn no longer recognized. He could sense the greed and power that reigned in his son's mind. Not a good leader.

Yet, he had saved his father. And he had proved his military mind against one of the most brilliant generals of all time.

Aragorn's eyes met his sons.

"Never."

The Ranger kicked upward with his left foot, driving his son's sword up and into the air. With his right foot, Aragorn kicked the ground, executing a back flip that most thirty year olds would be proud of, not to mention those who were near two hundred. Upon landing, Aragorn rushed forward, slamming his shoulder into his shocked son's chest, driving him onto the ground. Narcil swept in a downward arc, stopping mere millimeters from Eldarion's neck.

"Now, you call your men off."

Eldarion smiled broadly. "Now that, father, was very impressive. Obviously, you have not lost much of your skill."

"My knees are not what they used to be," Aragorn admitted jokingly.

Eldarion actually laughed, then in an explosion of movement, he batted Narcil from his side and rose, placing a dagger on Aragorn's neck. Eldarion laughed again as he felt the cold steel of the knife of Lorien against his own neck. Father and son stood, blades against one another, both smiling in surprising amusement, considering the circumstances.

In an unspoken agreement, the two stepped back from one another, sheathing their daggers and spinning their swords.

"Again?" Eldarion asked brightly.

"Why not?"

_Illúvatar, please be with Glorfindel,_ Niphredil prayed as she raced onward, not tiring at all. She estimated that she had run nearly five hundred leagues in the last thirteen hours. _Send him healing and strength. Let him know that we are coming._ A tear slid down the elf's cheek. She took comfort in knowing that her God was more powerful than Mornië, and that Mordae and Celebdraug would put some serious injuries on whomever they found nearby Glorfindel when they went to rescue him.

"Where are the Udunaedos?"

Mornië's glittering black eyes searched Glorfindel's pain racked face.

"_Burn in Udun, you bastard."_

Mornië closed his eyes and touched his temple; the crack of Glorfindel's left leg breaking echoed through the torture chamber.

The elf bit his lip with such force that he drew blood, but still Glorfindel did not cry out.

"I must say," Mornië murmured in his smooth baritone as he walked in a slow circle around the torture table. "Thou art one of the hardiest captives I have ever had the pleasure of interrogating."

"_Thank you," _Glorfindel gasped between breaths. _Why don't I just pass out?_ the elf screamed in his mind.

"Oh, and by the way," Mornië continued as he orbited, "I am preventing thee from losing consciousness."

"_Oiale'kula. I suppose I owe you one."_

"Consider it a gift."

"_I hope Mordae and Celebdraug make your death incredibly painful," _Glorfindel hissed.

"Dost thou not tire of this?" Mornië inquired, sending a wave of pain up Glorfindel's right side.

"_It does get kind of monotonous after a while," _the elf gasped once the pain had subsided.

"I really do not care if thou tells me where they are or not," Mornië finally admitted, taking a seat in a chair beside the table. "I will find them either way."

"_Oh really?"_

"Of course. They will discover where I am keeping thee, from thy lover..."

"_Girlfriend. Unlike you scum, High elves have morals."_ Glorfindel intentionally used the title most hated by the Drow, 'High elves', which inferred that the Drow were lower.

"That is fine," Mornië agreed, surprisingly good-natured. "In a little while, I will ensure that the two of thee never will be any more."

"_Bastard."_ Glorfindel spat blood across Mornië's face.

The Drow stood, sending the most intense wave of pain he could muster into the elf. Glorfindel bit his lip and clenched his fists tightly, but could not hold back. After a few moments, he let out an anguished cry, and the pain subsided.

"There," Mornië said with a smile, wiping the bloody saliva from his face and smearing it across Glorfindel's tunic. "That was easy, was it not?"

The Drow began to walk away. "As I was saying, they will come, and soon. And we will be prepared for them. Then, thou will not be forced to enjoy this alone."

"_You seem pretty sure they won't kill you."_

Mornië stopped walking, sensing an opportunity to gain information. "I am confident."

_"They've killed balrogs."_

"I have controlled balrogs."

_"They battled Morgoth."_

"I was trained by Morgoth himself."

There was a long pause as Glorfindel inhaled deeply, offering a quick prayer for Niphredil's safety.

"_May I go home now?"_

Mornië shrugged and barked something to one of the orc guards, who raced to the elf's side and quickly unfastened him.

The sack went back over his head, and Glorfindel was dragged, somewhat kinder, he noted this time, back to his cell, where he was gently lowered to the ground.

Glorfindel began casting as many mental healing remedies as he knew on himself, easing the pain.

_Illúvatar..._

That was all the Silvan could manage before he gratefully slipped into unconsciousness.

A shimmering figure, a tall, incredibly handsome elf with shining white hair, knelt beside the unconscious figure, extending a glowing hand over the Silvan.

_Peace be with you, My child._


	44. Chapter XLIII: What Goes Around, Comes A...

Chapter XLIII: What Goes Around, Comes Around 

Mordae nearly slid to a stop as he crested the top of a large hill. He forced himself to press on, however, taking in the sight before him as he raced onward. Before him was a black, bleak, city-like fortress, obviously military. The elf could identify barracks, a command headquarters, and several guard towers, all of which seemed to be in terrible disrepair.

It was into this base that Mordae raced into, sliding to a halt behind a large storage unit. In the center of the city, just before a large building emblazoned with the giant 'r'-rune of the Remnant, the elf could make out a cluster of eight dark figures. He began crawling forward, silently drawing his knife from the wrist sheath where he kept it.

"Shall we set up positions in the guard towers?" a woman's voice, smooth, calm, and collected, murmured.

"Zat vould be optimal," agreed a voice that Mordae immediately recognized as Vrayon.

"And ze three of usss?" another vampire hissed.

"Ze vampiresss vill all be ssstaying vith me, in ze open," Vrayon commanded.

_What does that make the others?_ Mordae wondered to himself. The elf allowed himself to rise a few inches higher to peer over the barrel he hid behind.

He identified Vrayon and three other vampires, judging from their size, but the other four figures sent a chill through Mordae's blood.

Dressed in all black, faces covered in black masks, gloved, and bearing large backpacks, the other four figures towered over the vampires. The all bore long black bows with two quivers of arrows a piece, and glittering black knives on their legs. No runes were visible on any part of their body, causing Mordae to assume that they were not Remnant.

_"Lle attam, del rhuna. Dinbourn, tuil yassen min__1__,"_ the woman's voice ordered in a dialect of elvish that Mordae had never heard before. It was similar to Quenya, but had differences that Mordae had never heard before. Remnant soldiers were forbidden to employ any language other than the Common Tongue. Mordae sighed quietly, accepting what had to be true; these were Halda'ohtar.

Lynza swooped silently down into the forest just outside of Lvrast and transformed with a slight pop. She gently, almost reverently, drew her staff from her back, removing the sheaths from the blades. The vampire inhaled deeply, then began to start forward.

Lynza jumped as a hand clamped down on her shoulder. The vampire whirled, her staff beginning to spin even as she turned. A strong hand shot out and took hold of the staff's center, arresting the whirl. Lynza's right hand shot to her knife, but her attacker's beat her to it.

"Stop, damn it!" a familiar voice hissed.

Lynza froze. "Celebdraug?"

"Yes, Illúvatar's breath!"

The vampire general frowned. "You really should find better ways to approach people when on mission. Mordae said you almost killed him in New Edoras."

"Later," a male voice ordered, and with a pop, Draylen appeared behind Celebdraug.

Lynza looked the pair over, taking note of the armory they carried. "Wait a minute. How did you get here?"

"We took the travel caravan," Draylen hissed. "Why did you leave without us?"

Lynza sighed. "I didn't want to put you in danger."

_"You idiot!"_ the lieutenant hissed, reverting to vampirish in his rage. _"Danger is what I signed up for! Quit trying to be so self-righteous and let somebody help you!"_

Celebdraug put her hand gently on Draylen's shoulder, and the vampire relaxed.

"You're going to get all three of us killed if you start arguing here," the elf observed coolly. "Now, Lynza, Draylen and I are going to cover you while you go in there. We have no idea if Vrayon will be true to his word, and we don't want you to get yourself killed because you were. Where is Mordae?"

"If I knew, would I be so surprised to see you?" Lynza growled.

"Nice point," Draylen surrendered.

"The idiot is probably playing hero inside the city. I wouldn't be surprised if he tries to kill Vrayon himself," Celebdraug sighed, removing her bow from her back.

"Draylen and I will take up positions in the guard towers," the elf continued. "Stay out in the open, and raise your hand if you want us to fire."

Draylen loaded his _vrylna_ and began to walk toward the western half of the forgotten stronghold.

Celebdraug saluted Lynza. "May Illúvatar be with you."

"I'd rather have an army."

The elf smiled sadly and shook her head, then turned and followed Draylen.

_"Rac,"_ Mordae hissed as he risked another glance over the barrel. The Halda'ohtar were gone, presumably to their sniper positions, and Mordae had been unable to trace any of them.

Mordae? 

The elf knew it could only be Celebdraug. Hiding behind a barrel twenty meters from the headquarters. 

Why? 

It's more fun down here. 

Celebdraug, who had lay down atop the roof of a guard tower with an elven cloak over herself, making her virtually invisible, shook her head.

Draylen and I are in position atop two of the guard towers. 

_Rac. _ Mordae resisted the urge to stand up, shaking his head as an alternative.

What? Celebdraug sounded not worried in the least bit.

There are four – repeat, four – possible Halda'ohtar snipers in positions on other guard towers, Mordae groaned.

That's not good. 

Understatement of the day. 

Celebdraug suppressed a snicker, slowly drawing an arrow and knocking it against her bow. Any info on them? 

One of them is a woman, and another is named Dinbourn. 

You're so helpful. 

I pride myself in it. Where are you? Mordae asked, slowly crawling backward out of the city, not taking his eyes off the four vampires in the center.

Third tower from the gate, on the roof, Celebdraug responded. You? 

Mordae rose and sprinted for the wall, ten meters away. He waited for the inevitable hiss and the sting of an arrow in his back, but none came, and he vaulted off a storage unit onto the side of another watchtower.

Clinging to the fifth tower on the south side. 

Celebdraug swallowed another laugh as her eyes traced up the tower, locating the dangling figure, which scrambled quickly to the roof and proceeded to wrap a cloak over itself.

Where's Draylen? Mordae inquired, once he had drawn an arrow and was in position.

Damned if I know, Celebdraug replied. He headed north, and I lost sight of him. 

There was a lull in the conversation.

Lynza? Mordae questioned.

Should be moving in any time now. 

Does she know Vrayon has friends? There was a slightly worried tone in Mordae's mindspeak.

Not to my knowledge. Celebdraug's voice remained even.

Mordae swallowed deeply. Fire if support needed? 

There was a pause. I suppose we have to, Celebdraug finally conceded. We'll just have to trust that Draylen can take care of the snipers if they locate us. 

Another long pause. Can he? Mordae sounded unsure.

Celebdraug did not answer his question. There's Lynza. 

"Ssso, vat exactly are ve doing here?" Smynoc, the vampire captain, inquired of his General.

"Lynza and I have busssinesss to attend to," Vrayon explained. "She hasss harasssed me for ze lassst time. If ve cannot kill her, ze Drow vill."

Before either Smynoc or the two vampire elites could respond, an ear splitting shriek split the air. The elites leaped back, swords drawn, as Lynza appeared directly before them, her bladed staff whistling through the air. They began to counter, but the vampire girl was too fast for them.

Lynza thrust her staff to the right, hooking it around one of the elites' sword. Executing a quick circle with the blade of her staff, she hurled his weapon several meters away, then whirled and performed the same maneuver on the other.

Smynoc lunged forward to meet her, sword aimed straight for the girl's heart. Lynza bent over backward, striking upward with the wood and iron section of the staff between her hands, deflecting the attack upwards. As she rolled backward, the vampire swung her blade into Smynoc's stomach and dragged up to his neck. The captain let out a shriek, and with a pop, he dissolved into ashes that were borne away in the light breeze.

_Rac! _ Celebdraug hissed as the vampires battled.

Can't even get a shot off! Mordae sympathized, watching helplessly as the creatures dueled. That close to one another, a sniper shot was risky; it was just as likely that the dart would find Lynza rather than one of the enemies.

Movement! Celebdraug screamed, rising to one knee as she caught sight of a dark figure moving in a far off tower.

Confirm not Draylen! Mordae ordered.

It's a woman! 

Take the shot! 

There was a whispering hiss as one of Celebdraug's stealth arrows hurtled through the night into the head of the Halda'ohtar one hundred meters to her right. The body slumped silently to the ground, the arrow embedded in the wall behind it.

You know, Mordae breathed, attempting to fight off the in battle nerves, Just because it looked like a woman doesn't mean it wasn't Draylen. 

Shut up... Celebdraug began retorting. Movement one hundred meters to your left! Confirm not Draylen! 

Target armed with longbow! 

Fire! 

The Drow's body pitched from the top of the tower, leaving the arrow to plummet erratically to the ground. There was a sickening thud as it struck the ground, reminding Mordae of the sound that the Drow assassin in New Edoras had made.

Confirm two enemies down! Celebdraug commanded.

Confirmed! 

The two elites were moving for their swords, but Lynza beat them to their weapons. Stabbing into the neck of the closest, Lynza released her weapon with one hand and hurled her knife into the chest of the other. As the first opponent exploded into ashes, Lynza vaulted into the air and decapitated the other elite, who joined his compatriot as fire-leftovers.

Vrayon hissed and drew his daggers, wondering why his Halda'ohtar were not firing, his eyes narrowed. Just as he was preparing to attack Lynza, the girl spun her staff, then thrust it into the ground where it stood, quivering slightly.

The Remnant General knew she meant to stand down, and he could not bring himself to attack. He sheathed his dagger, angrily driving the blade into the metal pouch.

"I sssaid alone," Lynza hissed calmly.

Draylen sat still, atop the roof of the headquarters where he had flown, watching the seen and unseen dramas unfold around him. Mordae and Celebdraug had dispatched two of the Halda'ohtar very efficiently, and Lynza had done an excellent job defending herself. It was looking as though he would not have to reveal his position after all.

Suddenly, a glimmer of movement behind Celebdraug caught his eye. Then, behind Mordae, another dark figure rose. Draylen cursed, knowing that he could only take one of them down before the other slew one of his friends. He knew immediately which shot he wanted to take, but also knew that he would regret either decision. As he raised his _vrylna_, another thought hit him.

Swearing in vampirish, Draylen stood, aimed, and screamed at the top of his lungs, a bellowing sound that echoed off the walled fortress.

Vrayon and Lynza both looked up at him in astonishment, as he prayed the Drow would as well. There was a snap as he fired the first _lizcan_ at the Drow behind Celebdraug. At the range he was at, only thirty-five meters, there would be very little deviation of the disks; they only began to separate after forty, a characteristic that Draylen had developed after months of testing.

The assassin crouched behind Celebdraug exploded in a spray of purple blood as all three disks slashed through it. Celebdraug shrieked in disgust and rolled off of the roof, swinging under and into the guard tower.

Draylen cried out as an arrow from the other Drow slammed into his right shoulder, punched straight through the thick plate armor he bore, and halted flight, protruding from his back. There was an echoing crack as Mordae whirled and snapped the neck of the archer, letting the body fall to the ground.

Confirm all enemies neutralized! Mordae barked.

Confirm lots of nasty blood all over my nice sniper blanket! was the reply. A pause. Confirm enemies down. 

"I thought you sssaid alone," Vrayon hissed with an ironic smile.

"Looksss like lying runsss in the family."

1 You two, go east. Dinbourn, come with me.


	45. Chapter XLIV: Desperate Measures

_**Chapter XLIV: Desperate Measures**_

Gandalf glanced stoically about, not willing to let his fear transfer to the troops he led from atop his snow white horse. He sighed heavily as he identified three separate divisions of infantry heading to intercept his own. The insanity of the whole battle was overwhelming to the wizard. He could still feel the rattling impacts of the giant siege stones landing in the center of the chaotic mass of the main battlefield.

As he racked his brain for some plan to escape the three-pronged attack heading his way, Gandalf drew his shining sword, which galvanized his troops into drawing their own blades. With a sigh, the wizard closed his eyes and sought to recall one of the thousands of battle strategies that he had witnessed his apprentices discussing over lunch. While he found their idle chatter about various maneuvers and combat tricks foolhardy, Gandalf had to admit that the two had the most brilliant tactics he had ever beheld.

_When outnumbered, whether by yourself or guiding an army, strike first, and strike hard..._he heard Celebdraug saying._ Hit the weakest side and get out._

After a quick visual analysis, Gandalf determined that the western division appeared to be smaller; hopefully, that would enable his men to penetrate faster. Once through the horde, the wizard and his men could fight the remaining soldiers on one front, another point that the elves constantly emphasized.

"To the west!" Gandalf cried, wheeling his horse suddenly toward the chosen enemy horde.

The Dunedain soldiers let out a battle cry and surged forward, following the hail of arrows that the few elven archers in his charge fired.

Aragost fought to control his terrified horse as yet another siege stone smashed into the ground nearby, taking down a dozen more soldiers.

His efforts were unsuccessful, however, and the General soon found himself hurtling through the air over the heads of three Fellowship infantrymen.

Stumbling to his feet, Aragost raised his sword, ready to fight off any who had chosen to take advantage of his fall. Just before him, an elf maiden bearing a long, thin blade took a step toward him, her green eyes shining. She obviously recognized that he was of high rank by the stripes on his armor, and had decided that slaying him would be quite prestigious. The elf feinted forward with her blade, and Aragost batted it away viciously, then lunged forward, aiming for her open stomach.

The elf was gone. Aragost whirled, wondering how he had missed, then stopped as he caught sight of her again, this time attacking the three Fellowship infantrymen. The elf her sword through one man, then, thrust her dagger into another, dropping them both. As she leaped into the air and fired a murderous kick into the face of the final soldier, sending him sailing into one of the unforgiving pools of inky water, Aragost hurled his sword.

With a thud, the blade slammed into the elf's leg, flinging her to the wet and blood-soaked ground. Aragost rushed forward, intent on finishing her where she lay, but again, the elf was immediately gone. The General leaped backward just in time as she thundered past him atop his own horse waving mockingly with her sword.

Aragost swore as he bent to retrieve his sword. Another boulder slammed into the ground, knocking him to his knees and invoking another curse. He was going to have a very long talk with Eldarion about friendly fire.

Athfaë beat down enemy after enemy from her perch atop her black steed. The surprise defection was incredibly effective; the Belgorian Fellowship was in complete disarray, though disarray seemed to be the norm of the battle. Eldarion's infantry appeared to be somewhat organized, but the extent of organization was quite limited.

As she fought, Athfaë scanned the Venyarohirrim army for Dacil, but could not locate him. Slowing her erratic charge, Athfaë drew alongside Eorlmer, who seemed to be slightly oblivious to the chaos around him. The shieldmaiden took note of the pained look in his eyes, and a sense of dread began to settle over her.

The childhood friends battled in silence for a moment, until finally, Athfaë summoned up enough courage and managed to mutter one word. "Dacil?"

Eorlmer struck the Fellowship cavalryman that he was dueling with a brutally hard blow, his blade slicing straight across and through the man's chest, sending the two halves down to the marshland.

His hollow eyes looked up into Athfaë's hopeful face, and he choked, swallowing hard; she did not deserve this, especially not now. The young man urged his horse forward, hoping to escape the girl and dodge the question, but she was a much better rider than he, and was immediately in front of him, cutting him off.

"How?" Athfaë growled, fending off the attack of several Fellowship spearmen, who were attempting to restrain her from breaking the circle they had formed about the battlefield.

"I..." Eorlmer croaked, and he stopped again, wheeling his horse about.

Athfaë's eyes narrowed, and she blinked back tears. Though the girl had always prided herself in being able to control her emotions, she could not hold back the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. Swallowing hard, she raised her sword to the sky.

"To me!" her voice was shaken, but still discernable. However, the thudding of the siege stones drowned out her cry. Again, she cried, "Eorlinglas, to me!"

The call was taken up by nearby Venyarohirrim cavalry soldiers, and it swept through the battlefield, striking fear into the hearts of the Fellowship as they wondered at what was about to occur.

As the horde of riders approached, Athfaë hacked down the pike men, turned her horse toward the far off siege weapons, and charged.

Aragorn and Eldarion took a brief respite from their duel as they dodged the thundering horses that dashed past, following the others.

"The Rohirrim ride again, eh, Father?" Eldarion called, ominously calm, despite the fact that there was a massive, organized assault on his troops.

"Indeed they do."

"I need a Witch-King," Eldarion quipped.

"And some mumakíl," Aragorn added.

The number of riders began to diminish, and Eldarion stepped forward again into the circle the two had created around them. The bodies of several Fellowship and Dunedain soldiers lay about; those who had attempted to finish the duel but found that the skills of their targets far surpassed theirs.

Aragorn heaved a humungous sigh as he drew his blade up to his face, pointed slightly at his son.

"Getting tired?" Eldarion mocked, almost good-naturedly.

"I could use a nap."

Eldarion's eyes narrowed. "I could arrange for a permanent one."

The son lunged forward, blade hissing thorough the smoke and dust filled air. There was an earsplitting ring as the blades connected, then whirled around and struck one another again. Aragorn ducked another attack, stabbed a Fellowship soldier behind him, then spun back, deflecting Eldarion's next blow.

"Impressive," Eldarion admitted.

The young King executed a back flip, whipped around, and sliced an unsuspecting elf's head from his shoulders.

"Sloppy," Aragorn reprimanded.

With a roar, Eldarion rushed forward, striking again and again at his father, who deftly blocked every attempt to harm him. As another blow came down, the ranger's hand shot out and grasped the hilt of Eldarion's sword.

"You know that you will never best me," Aragorn scolded. "I taught you everything you know."

Eldarion responded by twirling his blade in an intricate arc that would have broken Aragorn's wrist had he not released the hilt.

"I would wager that you rue the day, too."

Aragorn shrugged. "I certainly do, now."

Gandalf raised his staff in desperation, calling down a flaming maelstrom upon the Fellowship soldiers pursuing his army. The western division _had_ been smaller, but proved to be better trained, as Gandalf had feared.

The wizard had ordered all the elven warriors to the front lines, where they could operate most efficiently. Though the Fellowship soldiers were well trained, most of them, at least one-on-one, were no match for an elf. However, the men learned fast, and had begun to use their numbers to overpower the Eldar, resulting in a near standstill of the charge.

Gandalf struck down another soldier with his staff as he slew one with his blade from atop his horse. He was filled with a bit more hope as he realized that they were only a few dozen meters from punching through the enemy army. His hope was quelled, however, when he saw the dwindling numbers of his own army.

There was a heavy whistling sound and another, much more jarring, impact as a siege stone struck the wizard's army. Another struck a moment later, and then another. Previously, the devastating weapons were not focused on him, but it seemed now as if the gunners had changed targets and begun to rain death upon the charging infantry.

A new sight caught Gandalf's eye as he again looked up from his battling. A long, dark line, stretching from the main battle to the reserve Fellowship units and the siege weapons. The wizard gestured for an elven lieutenant, who finished felling the three men his was dueling, then sprinted to his side.

"Sir?"

Gandalf pointed. "What is that?"

The elf gazed out over the battle. "That, sir, is the Venyarohirrim. They appear to be assaulting the siege weapons."

"Thank Illúvatar."

"Yes, sir," the lieutenant agreed. He raised his chin higher, straining to see over the Fellowship infantry. "We appear to be close to the end, do we not?"

"Indeed."

The elf saluted and dropped to the ground.

_"The end is in sight!" _he called. _"Charge!"_

Two score of elven warriors raced forward, swords cleaving an ever-widening gap through the Fellowship, and the surviving men quickly joined them, letting out harsh victory cries. Suddenly, and with great relief, Gandalf could see a path leading to the open marsh between them and the main battle.

The elven lieutenant let out another cry in Sindarin, which Gandalf could not hear, and the elves that had made it out turned and began hacking at the back of the surviving Fellowship, sandwiching them. In a few moments, the final Belgorian soldier fell, a half-dozen elven arrows burying themselves in his body.

Gandalf took the liberty of several deep breaths, then turned and surveyed the pursuing armies, which had closed to approximately half a league.

The wizard was now faced with the decision of where to move next, and he had to make it fast. Attack the other two divisions? Move to assist the Venyarohirrim charge? Rescue the bulk of the Dunedain army from the hellhole in which they battled?

Gandalf selected the final option, pointed his sword west, and called out his order.

"To our brothers!"

The men let out a cry and sprang forward, swords still drawn.

Athfaë raised her sword as she closed the final ten meters to the utterly shocked gunners, and then with a crash, she and the other Venyarohirrim struck.

The girl drove down all the artillerymen around the first siege weapon, then drew a torch from her saddlebags, lit it with her flint, and tossed it onto the massive launcher, which burst into flame.

A cry of victory rang out through her men at the sight of the blaze, and they move on to the next target, striking down the reserve soldiers as they thundered onward.

Nine leagues to the west, two dark figures stood, gazing out into the distant battle.

"_What do you think?" _Turdú asked Dilotè, who seemed transfixed by the far off engagement.

The Drow girl glanced up at him. _"I think it looks like Udun."_

"_That's what I was thinking."_

They stood in silence, watching as another siege weapon went up in flames and a significant horde of infantry moved toward the charging horsemen.

"_How much longer until we attack?" _Dilotè questioned, gazing up at the moon and stars.

"_I would say we give them another few hours," _Turdú answered._ "They've been going strong for the past eight. Soon, even the elves will be worn down."_

Dilotè nodded.

"_Do you want to stay and watch?"_

The girl shook her head. _"I've been in too many battles for it to be entertaining to watch one."_

"_Good point. Back to camp."_

The dark figures melted into the night.

Far away, none of the desperately battling soldiers could even fathom what was in store for them.

Mornië returned to the prison chamber a few hours later, in a much more cheerful mood.

Glorfindel awoke, blearily staring at the ceiling, again strapped to the table that he had been getting to know so well.

_"Did you have a nice lunch?" _the elf asked the Drow lord.

"I did, thank you."

_"Bring me anything?"_

A flicker of pain shot up Glorfindel's arm.

"That, and much more."

_"Goody."_

A sudden realization struck Glorfindel. He was no longer in any pain. The elf would have attributed this to the fact that his body had simply ceased to function properly, but his mind seemed to be healed as well. Glorfindel knew there was absolutely no way that his own mage work had performed this well, leaving him with only one explanation. Knowing that Mornië had the ability to read his thoughts, Glorfindel offered up two simple words.

_Thank you._

The dark mage did not seem to notice, but rather pulled a chair up beside the torture table.

"I tire of this game, elf."

_"It is getting kind of boring."_

Glorfindel prayed that the Drow could not sense his sudden healing.

"I fear we are forced to up the ante, if you will," Mornië growled. "If thou dost not give me something I want, and soon, I will simply finish thee."

_"Hope you have fun."_

Pain shot through the elf's body again.

"Where do the elves keep the rings?" Mornië growled.

Glorfindel's eyes grew wide.

_"Why do you want the rings?"_

**"TELL ME!"**

****Pain even beyond what he had felt before ripped through Glorfindel, who let out a cry.

_"Never!"_

More pain.

Suddenly, the pain vanished, and Glorfindel felt a new sensation. Something was in his mind, tearing through his knowledge, searching for something.

The elf focused with all his might, trying to stop the attack.

_Illúvatar, help me! _

Niphredil stumbled as she crested the top of another hill, bringing Rivendell suddenly into her sights.

A rush of memories, good and bad, hit her, and the Silvan dropped to her knees. She felt urged to go to the abandoned city, and Niphredil never ignored what she was told to do.

Rising to her feet, the girl sprinted toward the city, unaware of the two pairs of eyes watching her.

"Another elf?" Zalok muttered incredulously to himself.

"It would appear so," the other lieutenant, who stood with him, replied.

"What do we do with this one?"

"Hold it until Lynza gets back," came the immediate response.

"Treat it well?"

"Of course."

Zalok stepped from the trees thirty meters in front of the girl.

"Halt."


	46. Chapter XLV: Wheeling and Dealing

_**Chapter XLV: Wheeling and Dealing**_

Mordae slid to a halt beside a large fallen log, resting one foot atop the rotting bark. Celebdraug trotted slowly up beside him, her eyes scanning the sky to the north, searching for Draylen.

_"You okay?"_ Mordae inquired, noticing the evident worry on his cousin's face.

She nodded slightly, eyes still searching. _"Do you think he's okay?"_

Mordae had no idea, but he knew that would do nothing to console Celebdraug. _"I'm sure he is."_

There was an awkward pause.

_"That was a pretty brave thing he did," _Mordae offered tentatively.

_"Brave?"_ Celebdraug's voice was higher with the strain of battle and worry. _"He's an idiot! I hope he's still alive so I can kill him myself."_

Mordae let out a little snort of laughter, then hopped lightly over the log and stood beside Celebdraug, unsure of what to do next; his cousin's true feelings for Draylen, though Mordae could speculate, were still a mystery to him.

Celebdraug's head snapped up suddenly as a small black bat weaved unsteadily through the trees toward the elves. Ever the paranoid one, Mordae drew his sword, though he held it loosely and pointed downward.

There was a soft pop, and Draylen dropped heavily to the ground beside the two cousins.

"Please," he moaned, "kill me with that."

Celebdraug knelt beside the vampire where he laid, a look of partially concealed concern on her face. Her hand traced up Draylen's arm to the shaft of the long, black arrow, then finally came to rest on the entry wound.

"No," Draylen hissed, "it doesn't hurt when you mess with it."

Celebdraug narrowed her eyes slightly, not moving her hand. For a moment, there was silence, and then she spoke.

_"Rac._ Poison."

"Great. Just what I always wanted," the vampire complained, trying to inch away from Celebdraug.

"Would you just quit moving?" the elf commanded Draylen, who froze immediately.

Mordae knelt as well, examining the arrow.

"Impressive," he muttered. "It went all the way through."

Celebdraug peeled away the thick, steel plate-armor that Draylen wore, revealing a gaping, dark hole in his shoulder surrounded by a purplish mist.

Draylen let out a gasp of pain as Mordae jerked the dart out through his back in one swift motion.

"You...you..." the vampire hissed. "You dirty little ba..."

"Yes, yes, I know," Mordae cut him off, slowly turning the arrow in his hand. "Fascinating weaponry," the elf murmured as if to invisible beings as he scrutinized the dart. He peered closely at the head, trying to recognize the poison the Halda'ohtar used.

"Never seen this kind before," Mordae finally admitted, still raking over the tip.

"Great," Draylen growled. He sat up slightly, held down by Celebdraug. The vampire glanced up at the elf. "Can't I just jam that thing into his eye?"

Celebdraug raised an eyebrow as if considering the option.

"No," she finally concluded. "He's the biggest, so the orcs shoot for him, first."

"Obviously not," Draylen countered.

The elf did not argue, but rather closed her eyes, attempting to draw the poison to the surface with her mage powers.

"That tickles," Draylen quipped.

Celebdraug ignored him, and finally opened her eyes a moment later.

"I got most of it," she announced, "but not all. You'll probably end up with a nasty headache, but not much else."

"That, and this hole in my arm."

Mordae tossed his cousin a bandage strip, which she tied around the wound. "There, all better,"

"That's what you say."  
"Quit your whining," Celebdraug chided good-naturedly.

"I just got shot!" Draylen argued. "I'm allowed to gripe!"

"I've been shot before, and I didn't complain that much, did I, Mordae?" the elf commented proudly.

Mordae turned away, humming to himself.

"Oh, who asked you, anyway?" Celebdraug growled. She turned her gaze back to Draylen, who was rising slowly to his feet.

"That was a very stupid...and very brave...thing you did," the elf admitted, looking into Draylen's eyes.

"Yeah, but I got your pretty outfit all bloody."

Celebdraug grinned, then threw her arms around Draylen. "Thank you."

The vampire's eyes widened in surprise, but after a moment, he returned the hug. "I'll try not to do it again."

Celebdraug released him, and took a step back. "Good."

Mordae and Draylen locked eyes for a moment, the elf's twinkling mischievously.

Suddenly, the giant lunged forward, throwing his arms around Draylen mockingly. "Oh, Draylen! Thank you so..."

He let out a grunt as Celebdraug's fist slammed into his ribs, causing him to stumble sideways, trip over the rotting log, then fall behind it, hidden from view for a moment.

"Illúvatar's breath!" the elf cried as he crawled back over the crest of the log, rubbing his aching side. "Jealous, are we?"

Celebdraug stuck her tongue out at her cousin, then, tossing her braid over her shoulder, the elf began to stride haughtily back toward Lvrast.

Draylen cast a sympathetic glance over his shoulder at the other Noldor – who was glaring playfully at his cousin – shrugged, and followed Celebdraug.

Mordae sprinted briefly to the vampire's side, putting his massive hand on Draylen's good shoulder.

"What does she see in you, man?"

Draylen glanced up at the elf and smiled, revealing his long fangs.

"I'm so pretty," he answered in a singsong voice, skipping ahead to walk alongside Celebdraug.

Mordae shook his head as he wearily followed the pair, muttering dejectedly to himself.

"I'm the only sane person left in Middle Earth."

"Are you insssane?" Vrayon hissed, taking a hasty step toward Lynza. "Do you vant all of Middle Earth to hear you?"

"First of all," Lynza responded calmly in Endea, "there is nobody else around us. Second of all, maybe I do."

Vrayon narrowed his eyes. "If your troopsss find out zat ve are kin, zey vill never trussst you."

"On the contrary," Lynza argued. "My soldiers obey me because they trust me. Yours, however, follow your orders because they fear you and Mornië."

There was a long pause in the conversation. "Ssspeak ze Common Tongue," Vrayon ordered, ignoring Lynza's accusation.

"Why? I am not allowed to speak my native language in your presence?"

"Ze language of ze new vorld is ze Common Tongue," Vrayon stated proudly. "Novone is better zan anozer, and all can relate on equal ground."

"Oh, sssomebody get me a bucket," Lynza laughed mockingly, complying with the Remnant General's wish. "Fine, if you are going to become a politician on me, I vill agree to your termsss."

Vrayon nodded with content.

"Now you lisssten to mine," Lynza ordered.

Vrayon sighed. "Vat do you vant? You jussst ssslew my captain and my top two lieutenantsss, and you exssspect me to give you more?"

"You should have trained your troopsss better, no?"

"Bitch," Vrayon spat.

"Now, zat vasss uncalled for."

Vrayon allowed himself a small chuckle. "Ssso vasss putting your damned ssstaff through my men."

Lynza laughed, then grew suddenly serious again. "My firssst conssstraint isss zat you mussst no longer pursssue or attack my people, or any of our protected ssstatesss."

"Or vat?" Vrayon hissed incredulously. "You vill go into hiding again?"

"Or I vill tell everyvone ze truth."

This sobered Vrayon, who had begun pacing back and forth.

"You vould not dare," the General argued.

"I vould, and I vill," Lynza countered. "I alssso am far more powerful zan you believe me to be, Vrayon. I could caussse many problemsss for you."

"Mornië and ze Remnant vould crush you without even breaking a sssweat."

"Mornië would be quite annoyed if he were forsssed to deviate from hisss main objective becaussse you could not sssolve your own domessstic unressst."

Vrayon fell silent again, acknowledging that the statement was far closer to the truth than he would like to have admitted. The General could almost hear Mornië chiding him, the smooth baritone seething with barely contained rage.

"Fine," the vampire finally spat. "I vill ssseassse my attacksss on you, for ze time being."

"Zer, zat vasss easssy, no?"

Vrayon glared at Lynza.

"Sssecond," the woman continued, "you vill give me free range to attack ze Lychensss, vith ze sssupport of your troopsss."

"Zat isss completely inane. Vhy vould I do zat?"

Lynza smiled victoriously at the other vampire. "Becaussse I can help you."

Vrayon grinned as well. "Asss if your help wasss needed."

"I have detailed mapsss, keysss, and battle hissstoriesss of Khazad," Lynza countered.

This information brought Vrayon into stunned silence. He resumed pacing as his mind raced. Khazad, the final stronghold of the dwarves, was rumored to be the resting place of the most powerful of the dwarf rings. It was Vrayon's assignment to acquire that ring, no matter what the cost.

Mornië's exact words; 'no matter the cost.' The Drow mage had confided in Vrayon that the Lychens were just pawns, and had no real use other than as cannon fodder and brute strength. Therefore, he would really not be doing the Remnant a disservice. _And_, if Lynza spoke the truth, he would obtain the ring, which would give him more credit in Mornië's eyes. If the Drow had no idea that Vrayon's troops had assisted, or if he claimed that they had acted on their own will – he could even have them all executed afterward – then the General would come away unscathed. He had always loathed Garulf anyway.

On the other hand, if he were caught and Mornië was displeased...the vampire shuddered to think of the destruction that would befall the entire race of vampires. But, if they were not caught, the Lychens would no longer be a thorn in the empire's past, and a stumbling block to their future.

"How did you come upon zessse keysss and sssuch?" Vrayon asked, still mulling the choice over in his mind.

"I am ssspecial, and you are not. Doesss it matter, if zey work? I happen to have a very powerful essspionage sssector."

Vrayon smiled grimly. Lynza had known that Khazad interested Vrayon, a fact that very few of his own soldiers were aware of. "It vould appear ssso."

The question of trust remained in his mind. He would never forgive himself, nor would Mornië, if he blindly followed Lynza into a trap. "Do you have zessse itemsss on hand?"

Lynza slowly removed the pack she wore on her back, plunged her hand into it, and a moment later, withdrew several rolls of parchment and a set of gargantuan, glowing keys.

Vrayon inhaled slowly, then let out a sigh.

"It isss a deal. Give zem to me."

"Vone lassst thing," Lynza added.

Vrayon let out an impatient hiss.

"My troopsss asssissst yoursss vith acqviring ze ring."

The General was far to experienced to put himself in such a situation as having the enemy fighting alongside your own soldiers.

"No."

"Zen ve at leassst asssissst in ze battle," Lynza bargained.

"Vhy?"

"Ve have encountered ze dwarvesss before, and ve owe zem a few favorsss," the vampire explained.

Vrayon pondered again; he did not trust Lynza to such extent. However, if her troops were all killed in battle, which he could quite easily arrange, he would no longer have to worry about the Lychen issue.

"Done."

Lynza nodded and bowed slightly. "Pleasssure doing busssinesss vith you."

"Get out of my sssight before I run you through vith my sssword."

"Tempting thought, I will admit," Lynza commented with a smile. "Ven do ve attack Khazad?"

Vrayon sighed. "Tonight. Jussst before dawn."

"I vill sssee you zere."

"You have my vord."

Lynza laughed harshly. "The vord of Vrayon isss vorth lesss zan my boot."

"I would argue zat; zose look like cheap bootsss."

"You are a general, not a comedian," Lynza chided. "Until dawn," the vampire said with a small bow.

"Until dawn," Vrayon responded. "And commend your sssnipersss. It isss not every day you encounter vone who can bessst an elf."

Lynza noted a sinister gleam in the General's eye, but showed no sign. She wondered if he suspected that she was in league with Mordae and Celebdraug, but quickly ejected the thought from her mind.

"I shall. Farewell."

With that, Lynza transformed and whirled back toward the forest, where her three friends awaited her.


	47. Chapter XLVI: Chaos Reings Supreme

_**Chapter XLVI: Chaos Reigns Supreme**_

The Venyarohirrim surged onward; leaving dozens of flaming infernos that had once been siege weapons in their wake. At the head of the horsemen, Athfaë let out a whoop of exhilaration. The thought of Dacil's death still hung over her as an oppressive cloud, but it had still not fully sunk into her adrenaline pumped mind. As a warrior, Athfaë also knew that she must push all thoughts of pain out of her mind and focus that energy toward surviving and taking vengeance.

"Athfaë!"

The Venyarohirrim woman raised her head from her blood-work to see her father riding toward her through the scattering Fellowship.

He arrived alongside her, and was silent for a moment. Finally, he spoke, his voice sounding somewhat strained. "Athfaë, I know that Dacil's death may be difficult for you, but take comfort in knowing this; what you have accomplished here, Dacil would be proud to have given his life for. You have done his memory well."

The girl shot a glance over her shoulder at the main battleground, which had rapidly begun to expand as the siege weaponry ceased their incessant firing and Gandalf's division drew ever nearer to the chaos.

The progress that the charge had made was immeasurably helpful to the battle. Until the cavalry had so recklessly attacked the distant soldiers and broken the hold of the Fellowship, the battle had seemed to be leaning in the Belgorian's favor. Now, it was anyone's victory once more.

She turned her eyes back to Elfwine, who smiled reassuringly.

"You know, father, I believe you are right."

The dark figures looming to the east knew whose victory it would be. The humans had willing leaped into the trap set for them by the great Dark Lord, and now, they see his bidding fulfilled with their very lives.

Turdú slowly turned his head, surveying the force he led; while small in comparison to the massive armies before him, he was confident that his men could hold their own. He stopped his gaze on the face of his Captain. Dilotè's eyes shone with anticipation, yet her face was stoic, calm. She had painted the traditional runes of her people on her cheeks and forehead, and her hair was done in the customary style of a Halda'ohtar general.

The girl seemed to sense his gaze; her dark eyes shot to her left, meeting his, and she smiled. Turdú returned the smile, then raised his broadsword high into the sky, which had barely begun to lighten with the dawn. Dilotè raised her twin blades alongside his, crossing over her head.

"Remnant!" Turdú cried. "For our lord!"

"Mornië!" came the thunderous reply, and with the shimmering sound of metal clearing sheaths, the two thousand Drow riders charged forward.

Gandalf struck down another three Belgorians as he galloped through the noose that had been set about the Dunedain. The tide of the battle had begun to turn in their favor, and the ray of hope that fact brought had rejuvenated the morale of the Dunedain, causing them to fight harder. The wizard felt the surge of energy his troops radiated, and he fought to maintain the high morale.

He sighted Aragorn a few meters in front of him, dueling with Eldarion. The wizard wondered if the two had been at it for the entire battle, but he cast aside the thought as his gaze shifted to Eldarion's captain, Aragost. The young man was hacking his way toward his General, and Aragorn. There was no doubt in Gandalf's mind that the captain would not feel a shred of remorse if he struck down the former king from behind.

Spurring Shadowfax, his horse, forward, Gandalf cleared the final few meters and intercepted Aragost's attack, deflecting the blow away from Aragorn. The wizard leaped from his mount's back onto the marshland, aiming his blade and staff toward the Belgorian Captain, who nodded in acknowledgement and pointed his own blade.

The two rushed forward, blades crashing together, and then they began to circle one another, adjacent to Aragorn and his son.

"Have you two been fighting this whole time?" Gandalf inquired as he passed the Ranger.

"Just about," came the weary reply, and then they were beyond one another.

There was another clash of weapons as the two pairs lunged forward, slashing and parrying, then broke apart again.

Now Aragost and Eldarion neared one another in their orbits.

"Is it just me, or is every soldier in the Dunedain ancient?" Aragost quipped as he passed Eldarion.

"It's not just you," Eldarion responded. "I think they all escaped from their penitentiary."

Aragost laughed as the two distanced one another again, attacking their opponents relentlessly.

Suddenly, Aragost sighted the female elf he had battled earlier rushing toward the four, riding his old steed. Not sure of what her intentions were, Aragost kept one eye on the advancing elf.

A few moments later, the girl dismounted with a graceful flip, landing in the center of the group. Before either Fellowship soldier could attack her, she held up her free hand, fingers splayed, ordering them to halt.

Not sure why, the two young men complied, bringing the duels to a halt.

"Run," the girl ordered in the Common Tongue, her elvish accent quite prominent.

All four men gazed unsurely at her.

The elf's eyes flickered to the east, then back to the men.

_"RUN!" _she ordered, much more urgently, and in her native tongue, the stress of the sight before her sending chills through her blood.

Gandalf followed her wavering gaze to the east, and his heart nearly stopped; two thousand black-cloaked warriors thundered forward, viciously hacking their way through the army.

The elf raised her sword and jerked her head back over her shoulder. "Get out."

Eldarion turned toward his father. "Pleasure fighting you again, father."

"Likewise," Aragorn panted.

Aragost glared coolly into Gandalf's eyes and nodded slowly; a gesture of respect, which the wizard graciously returned.

With the gratuities over, the Fellowship leaders departed, Eldarion crying out the retreat. The attention of the other infantrymen was suddenly directed toward the Drow, rather than one another, as they attempted to flee the unstoppable horde.

Dilotè slashed left and right as quickly as she could, striking down human infantry with every stroke. The Dunedain elves had begun to band together in the center, directly in front of Dilotè, to form one last desperate defense. The girl smiled, welcoming the new challenge.

Turdú angled his steed toward the fleeing leaders of the Dunedain, Aragorn and Gandalf. Just as Dilotè had been ordered to capture Glorfindel, Mornië had commanded him to bring both the Ranger and the wizard to him, and the Drow intended to complete his mission.

He looked up just in time to see a shining white blade slash across his vision, and the Drow leaned downward, flattening himself against his horse's back. The blade whipped straight through where his head had once been, then the General snapped back up in his seat, dark blade raised.

He made eye contact with the Sindar who had nearly ended his military career; a brown haired girl with piercing green eyes stared back, calmly swinging her blade. With a battle cry, she rode forward again, blade poised to attack. Turdú leaned forward and urged his own steed into a gallop as well, and the two met with a flurry of swords. They struck, whirled in two full circles, and then separated, riding back a dozen meters, preparing to charge again.

There was a thunder of hooves again as Dilotè raced past Turdú, who nearly dropped his sword in surprise. The Sindarin girl, who had barely readied herself, charged forward to meet the attack. The two women met with a shimmering crack as their blades collided, and suddenly, Dilotè was in the air, off her horse.

Turdú inhaled sharply, worried that his captain had suffered a fatal blow, but he exhaled as the Drow girl landed on the back of the Sindarin woman's horse. The elf whipped her head around in surprise, but had no time to react; Dilotè drove her palm into the other woman's shoulder, knocking her into one of the dark pools of water. The elf hit the pool with barely a splash, then disappeared from view without a sound.

The Drow captain saluted the pool, returned to her original mount, then trotted back to Turdú.

_"Showoff," _Turdú accused teasingly.

_"Okay, so the flip was unnecessary." _Dilotè glanced again at the pool. _"She fought with honor."_

_"Indeed,"_ Turdú nodded._ "Unfortunately, she fought for the wrong side." _

Dilotè nodded in agreement, then lifted her chin. _"Your prey is escaping."_

Turdú seemed shocked back to the real world as he noticed Aragorn and Gandalf rapidly gaining distance from him.

_"Noralim!"_ he shouted to his steed, which leaped forward in pursuit.

Dilotè smiled as she watched the General gallop off, then angled for the distant flaming siege weapons, where she knew her target waited.

_"I'm coming, Horsewoman..."_

Niphredil felt a spike of fear at the sight of the vampires, but it dissipated as a supernatural sense of calm settled over her.

_They are friends. Go to them._

The Silvan girl staggered forward, drawing within a meter of the pair. Her bleary eyes settled on Zalok's face.

_"My lady,"_ the vampire lieutenant greeted the woman in his best elvish.

_"Celebdraug...Mordae..."_ the girl croaked, her voice dry and harsh from dehydration.

Her knees gave out suddenly, and she began to fall, but Zalok lunged forward and caught her gently by the arms.

_"You need the elves?"_ he inquired quickly but kindly, sensing the overwhelming weariness that threatened to take the elf.

_"Drow...Dead...Marshes..."_

Zalok shot a glance at his companion; he understood the words 'Drow' and 'Dead', but the translation of the final word eluded him. The other lieutenant shrugged, not familiar with the ancient language.

_"I...understand not," _the vampire attempted to communicate with the girl, who had begun to grow even paler.

_"Water," _she gasped, and then she was gone, unconscious from fatigue.

Zalok tenderly lifted her over his shoulder. "Let's get her inside," the vampire ordered hurriedly. "Go find her water. I'm taking her to my bed."

The second lieutenant saluted and transformed, whirling off toward the city.

"Hold on," Zalok willed the elf as he sprinted for his room. "Stay with us."

Behind the retreating vampire, an invisible, shimmering elf with long white hair nodded approvingly; his servant's faith was strong, and she had done well. Now the vampires would care for her, and in a short while, she would set in motion the beginning of the end.

Gandalf whirled just in time to dodge the massive black horse that thundered past directly where he had previously stood, sending up splashes of black marsh water from its massive hooves. He lashed out with his broadsword as the Drow raced past, but the soldier was past before he could make contact.

Turdú cursed to himself as he passed the wizard, re-angled, and ran down the Ranger, who seemed to be far too preoccupied with directing his fleeing troops. Aragorn managed to roll far enough to the side to escape the crushing hooves, but not enough to avoid the vicious strike of Turdú's left fist.

The Ranger stumbled and collapsed to his knees, scrambling to rise again, but Turdú dismounted and drove his hand into Aragorn's temple once again. The King fell again as Turdú raised his arm to strike one final blow, but the Drow abandoned his attack to parry Gandalf's blade.

The wizard whipped his staff over his head toward Turdú, but the Drow caught the weapon in his hand, leaped up, and fired a kick into Gandalf's knee. With a cry of pain, the wizard collapsed, Turdú rolling over his back and slamming his elbow into the disoriented Aragorn's chest. The Dunedain general flew backwards once more, struck his head against the wet ground, and lay still.

Turdú haughtily spun his blade in a quick circle, sheathed it, then bent to load Aragorn onto the back of the massive black steed. Gandalf fired a blast of flame at the General, but Turdú saw it coming, and dove to the side, escaping with naught but singed armor.

Gandalf began to rise, but a Drow lieutenant that flew from the chaotic horde, knocking the white staff from the wizard's hand and driving him down onto his knees. A quick scramble, a driving fist, and Gandalf sank to the marshland ground.

Turdú saluted the lieutenant, who returned the gesture, assisted in loading the two men, then vanished into the retreating horde once more.

The Drow General gazed coolly at the pair of unconscious captives, saluted them, and leaped onto his mount, wheeling around and heading back eastward. Lord Mornië would be proud.

"Watch out!" Eorlmer screamed, driving his horse between the unsuspecting Athfaë and the murderous Dilotè. The Drow girl swore at the obstacle, swinging both her blades in a crushing arc over her head and crashing down hard onto Eorlmer's.

Surprisingly, the horseman's sword held, and he pushed back her attack and countered, a blow that had no chance whatsoever of connecting with the Drow.

Suddenly, Elfwine was beside the other Venyarohirrim, his own blade whipping around toward Dilotè, who rode backward, hastily attempting to beat off the attacks. Athfaë rode quickly behind her, cutting off her escape route.

The Drow's mind flashed back to the night in the forest, where she had nearly taken her own life at the hands of the horsewoman, all in the name of honor.

Turdú's kindness – and mistakes – had taught Dilotè a great deal about honor and life, changing her own outlook on her existence drastically. She would not give up so easily this time.

Three more Venyarohirrim soldiers rode to their captain's assistance, tightening a noose around the Drow captain, who found no time to attack; instead she was forced to dedicate all her attention to deflecting the blows of the enemy cavalrymen that rained down upon her.

Athfaë drove in closer, knocking one of the thin blades from Dilotè's hand, sending it spinning into one of the murky pools. The Drow drove her free hand into Athfaë's face, surprising the girl and nearly knocking her from her mount. The other Venyarohirrim responded by attacking even more fiercely, many delivering slashing blows that managed to break the circle of protection that Dilotè attempted to keep around herself.

As the purple blood ran down her arms and side, Dilotè fought back all the more valiantly, thrusting one of her daggers through the forehead of a cavalryman and lopping off the head and shoulder of another beside her. A short blade smashed into the Drow's side, sending a greenish flash of blinding pain across her vision.

Suddenly, the blade ceased its driving force and instead was jerked out rapidly, causing another flash of pain. There was a clatter of metal, several loud crashes and screams, and as Dilotè's vision cleared, she witnessed Turdú hurling another throwing knife from his position thirty meters away, sending yet another Venyarohirrim onto the marshland floor.

Dilotè sprang into action, ignoring the pain and blood and drawing the pair of sai from her back. Spurring her steed forward, she caught Eorlmer's blade with one weapon, shattered it with the other, then drove the first into his shoulder, spinning him harshly. As she thundered past, she struck the final blow with her left-handed sai, punching into the horseman's chest, straight into his heart.

Athfaë let out a cry of rage as Dilotè hurled her right sai into Elfwine's stomach, finishing the man with a quick slash across his exposed neck. The Venyarohirrim girl launched herself onto the Drow's mount, swinging with all her might at Dilotè's head.

Seeing that she would not have time to deflect the blow, Dilotè pushed her boots against the stirrups, rising a few centimeters higher and taking the blow in her heavily armored shoulder. Despite the armor, the blade bit in, hard, drawing yet more purple blood and causing Dilotè's vision to swim. Just before she lost consciousness, the Drow slammed her palm into Athfaë's temple, hurling her from the black horse onto the ground, where she lay motionless.

Turdú rode hard to Dilotè's side, catching her before she fell, then swung her onto his own horse, where he would keep her from falling as they rode. He dismounted quickly, loaded Athfaë and the other two prisoners onto the back of the Drow woman's horse, then turned both the mounts eastward and rode hard for the horizon.

The surviving Drow, seeing their leader falling back, let out a final war cry, then, as suddenly as they had come, whirled and disappeared into the rising sun.

The Dunedain and Venyarohirrim broke off their attack and retreated at breakneck speed northward; a withdrawal that would not cease until they arrived in Lothlorien.

"Fellowship!" Eldarion cried to the bedraggled remainder of his army. "Make camp! I am not in any shape to ride home tonight, and I think none of you are either."

The army let out a cry of agreement and exhilaration, then quickly began to set up a makeshift camp.

Eldarion turned wearily to Aragost, who grinned broadly. "We beat them, sir."

The King nodded slowly, hanging his head in exhaustion. "I think we did, Aragost. I think we did."


	48. Chapter XLVII: Race of Death

_**Chapter XLVII: Race of Death**_

Lynza called out a greeting as she approached the three waiting friends, who stood, eagerly awaiting her return.

"How'd it go?" Draylen inquired, hopping up to stand beside Mordae, who had risen when he first detected the other vampire approaching.

"Ah, just wonderful," Lynza replied dryly. "I think we made some progress, though."

"Yeah?" Celebdraug prompted as she rose from her perch on yet another fallen log.

"We need to get back to Rivendell and muster the troops," the vampire woman announced. "At dawn, we attack Khazad, and you two can have a shot at this ring you've been wanting so badly."

"Excellent," Mordae commented emphatically, nodding.

"And, after that," Lynza continued, "I have Vrayon's full support, or at least the scumbag won't stop us, in attacking the Lychen home country."

"How in the blood Moon did you get him to do that?" Draylen cried, a gigantic, uncontrolled grin spreading over his face.

"Well," the vampire leader admitted, "I'm sure he has some hair-brained scheme up his sleeve, but we'll take it down with the rest of the foul-blood wolves."

"Does he know about us?" Celebdraug interjected, gesturing to herself and Mordae.

"Not to my knowledge," Lynza responded. "Though, he did comment on the fact that my snipers were excellent."

Mordae puffed out his chest in mock-haughtiness. "Of course."

Lynza giggled slightly, then stopped as she saw the bandage around Draylen's arm.

"Is it bad?" she gasped, rushing forward, extending her hand as if to examine the wound.

"No," the vampire hissed, pushing her away, "But if everybody keeps poking it, it's going to end up that way."

"Fine, fine," Lynza surrendered, holding her hands up slightly and backing away.

"Good girl," Draylen commended her.

The other vampire hissed teasingly and Draylen hissed back; the elves had begun to wonder if the sound represented some odd form of vampire cursing.

"Well," Mordae commented, pushing thoughts of foreign language study from his mind, "Shall we return to base?"

"Are you up to it?" Lynza tentatively questioned Draylen.

"For Illúvatar's sake," Celebdraug answered before the vampire could respond, "He's been shot in the arm, not had a sword run through him."

"As my _caring_ counterpart put so eloquently," Draylen added with a dirty look at the elf, who grinned happily, "I'm fine. And if one more person asks me, I'm going to ram this staff up their..."

"Draylen?" Mordae's voice was soft.

The vampire raised an eyebrow in response.

"Are you alright?"

Draylen launched himself at the elf, who caught him by his left shoulder and spun him backwards. Before the play-fight could really begin, however, Lynza put a firm hand on either of the offending parties' shoulder and pulled them roughly apart.

"We have dwarves to fight," she chided.

Mordae shrugged innocently. "What do you think I was doing?"

Before Lynza could stop him, Draylen's fist struck the same side that Celebdraug had beaten earlier, causing the elf to double over slightly.

"Man," Mordae gasped, "You two are really asking for it."

Celebdraug maturely stuck out her tongue at her cousin, who responded with the same elegant gesture.

Lynza sighed as she prepared to transform and begin the short return journey back to Rivendell.

"I'm the only sane person left in this god-forsaken forest."

"I resent that!" Celebdraug cried.

Mordae and Draylen exchanged glances.

The elf threw up her hands. "It's true, but I still resent it!"

An hour later, the four crested the last hill leading to the fortress; Mordae and Celebdraug running on the ground, Lynza and Draylen flying through the air a few meters above them.

"Race you," Celebdraug panted to her cousin as they entered the final hundred meters.

Mordae responded by kicking into his hardest sprint, a pace that easily outdistanced the vampires and momentarily shook off Celebdraug, who slowly regained the distance until a single stride separated the two.

Just as they neared the first building, Zalok raced out to meet them, directly in the racing elves' paths.

The lieutenant dove to the side as the Noldor rocketed past, sliding to a halt a few meters farther.

"Who won?" Mordae – who had his hands on his knees as he attempted to catch his breath – gasped to the well-mannered vampire, who shook his head slowly in wonder.

"There is someone here to see you," he answered slowly, marveling how the two turned every image of elves he had ever imagined on its head.

"Really?" Celebdraug sounded quite surprised. "Did...it...give a name?"

"No," Zalok replied, "_She_ did not."

"Species?" Mordae inquired thoughtfully.

"Elf," the lieutenant responded confidently. "Silvan, perhaps. Blonde hair, green eyes...very fast..."

"Niphredil!" Mordae exclaimed in shock. "Where is she? What is she doing here?"

"She is in my quarters, but I do not know if she has awoken yet. She was quite overcome by exhaustion."

"Take us to her!" Celebdraug demanded.

"Please," Mordae added.

"My pleasure," Zalok retorted with a slight mock-bow. As they turned to depart, Lynza and Draylen transformed, arriving just beside the three.

"Holy blood, you're fast," Draylen marveled to Celebdraug as he strode quickly to catch the others. "There is no way I could ever keep up with you."

"I've trained for a while," she responded with a smile.

The five walked in silence for a moment.

After a few seconds, Draylen piped up. "Where we going?"

"To meet one of our friends."

"Is she hot?"

Celebdraug smacked the vampire brutally on the back of his head. "She has a man already, and I think she's a little out of your league."

"Says a lot about you," he countered smartly, raising his hand to ward off continued attacks.

"Children," Mordae reprimanded as they arrived before Zalok's room. "Behave yourselves."

Celebdraug sighed, pouting. "If you insist."

She was running again, pounding ever onward, but this time, it was not in the treed forests of the north. Instead, she ran along the plains of the southeast, gliding over hills, free as an eagle. Yet, suddenly, there was that terrible, slightly familiar smell...burning, rotting...death.

And there it was, a battlefield on an endless marshland. Bodies – men, women, young, old, horses, humans, Eldar, Drow – lay scattered everywhere, all in the grotesque positions of those taken too soon.

The acrid stench of the marsh, combined with the climbing flames that burned to the south and the corpses all around, made for an overwhelming sense of oppression, coldness...death.

The girl ran harder, gaining ground rapidly, soaring over the water without even touching it, yet not seeming to near the end of the bodies.

There, an old man she recognized. Elfwine, blood spattered all around him, his face grim.

Beside him sprawled Eorlmer, who was also covered in blood, his face covered with a mask of intense pain.

At the end of the bodies, the horse man, Dacil, obviously dead for quite some time.

Suddenly, there, in the distance, was clear land. No bodies, but a dark horde of purple tinted elves...Drow.

She felt drawn to the man in the lead, face hidden from the stench by a black mask, riding atop a massive steed. A woman, Drow, also with a mask, lay against him, seemingly unconscious, but what was strewn on the mount behind him that caught the girl's attention.

Aragorn. Gandalf. The horse girl...Athfaë? All of them bloodied, beaten. Confusion rocked the girl, followed by utter shock.

She felt herself rushing, faster and faster, to the east, rising above a mountaintop, toward a dark, gloomy castle. Blackness.

_Glorfindel!_ The elf's face flashed before her, white with pain and stress, his eyes hollow. She reached for him, her hand seeming to stretch leagues, then it found another. Her eyes traced up the muscular arm, to the dark face, covered by flaming tattoos. The bald head, covered in black depictions of flame, the piercing, cold eyes.

_Mornië._

Mordae gripped Niphredil's hand tighter as she let out a scream, thrashing wildly in the bead she lay in.

Her green eyes snapped open, meeting Mordae's calm yellow irises, and she let out a quiet moan, relaxing slightly.

"_Everything is alright now," _the elf soothed, gently brushing a strand of blonde hair from Niphredil's forehead.

The girl panted for breath, her heart still racing. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and she held Mordae's hand tighter.

"_No,"_ she murmured, surprised that her voice seemed to have returned, her throat no longer dry. Though she could not recall it, Zalok had given her nearly a dozen canteens of pure, cool water from Rivendell's streams, along with a supply of lembas normally consumed by a full-grown man over three days.

Niphredil swallowed, reveling in the absence of the dry, constricted feeling that so often came with extreme distance running.

"_It's not alright," _she argued weakly, attempting to sit up in the bed. She paused, gazing coyly at the faces that she had not seen before; Celebdraug and three vampires she did not recognize.

Mordae knelt beside the bed, gently pushing her back down. _"Why?"_

"_They've taken them. Mornië took them all..." _Niphredil moaned, recalling the terrible images. _"So many dead..."_

"_How, Niphredil?"_ Mordae's voice was strained with seeing one of his friends in such a dire situation and the unsettling words she was muttering.

"_They said...they said you told them to go. The Dead Marshes...it was a trap..."_

"_The Dead Marshes?" _Celebdraug cried, glancing at Draylen, who shrugged.

"I have no idea what in Udun you three are saying."

Celebdraug patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and returned her attention to Niphredil.

"You told the horsepeople...on the palantír..." 

"_No!" _Mordae denied. _"I didn't!"_ He shot a questioning stare at Celebdraug, who shook her head vigorously.

"_Then...who?" _Niphredil's eyes widened.

_"Mornië,"_ Mordae growled.

_"He has them all. Aragorn, Gandalf, Athfaë..."_ the Silvan's voice choked. _"Glorfindel. He's had him for the longest. A day and a half..."_

_"You ran here from Rohan in a day and a half?"_ Mordae sounded skeptical.

_"Twelve hours, actually."_ Niphredil managed a weak smile. _"Why do you have that written on your forehead?"_

Mordae put a hand on the Silvan's forehead. _"Are you delirious?"_

"_I wish."_ Tears began to flow again from the shining green eyes, causing a look of pain to flash over Mordae's face.

"_Where are they?"_ the giant growled, beginning to rise.

"_I don't know," _Niphredil moaned. "_I saw them in a dream. They looked like they were in Rohan. Barely out of the Dead Marshes."_

Mordae cracked his knuckles. He spun, his normally soft eyes hardened to the cool gaze of a professional killer.

"Lynza." The elf's voice was cold, unearthly. "I thank you for your hospitality. I will return as soon as I can, but I can't promise anything."

"Wait!" Lynza cried, her eyes desperate.

Celebdraug slid her hand into Draylen's as she prepared to say good-bye.

"Wait," Lynza's voice was soft. "I...I'm sorry. I should not be so selfish." Her voice trailed off. Suddenly, her head snapped back up. "I am Vrayon's sister."

"What?" Some of Mordae's normal tones had returned to his voice.

"Vrayon and I are kin."

There was a long pause.

"Why are you telling us this?" Mordae inquired, his voice returning to the typical baritone. His eyes widened suddenly.

"_Za'vryn!_ The Blood-Gates!" the elf cried. "You have access to them!"

Lynza nodded slowly. "Would you please...please...stay and assist us with the dwarves. You can acquire the rings, and I will transport you to the mountains of Isen Meares at the same time the Drow arrive there. You will rescue your friends, and accomplish your mission."

"_Niphredil?"_ Mordae questioned.

The elf woman sighed. _"That is how it must be. I pray for your haste, and may Illúvatar guide your sword."_

"_As always. Heal quickly, for we return by mid-day."_

"_And then," _Celebdraug added, _"We're going to make Mornië wish he had never been born."_


	49. Chapter XLVIII: Deep Thinking

_**Chapter XLIIX: Deep Thinking**_

A lone bat spiraled high above the bleak landscape of Ramgost, weaving in and out of the dark clouds that covered the sky as it whirled northward. Below it flashed the desolate lands that had once been fertile with forests and streams, the country once known as Eriador. After the vampires had spread their reign over the land and driven out the inhabitants, the forests had all but collapsed, leaving diminutive patches of still green land, but reducing the remainder to desert like, cratered, dust filled land.

Above this wasteland, the bat performed a quick half loop and began a screaming descent, diving nearly vertically toward a massive valley, in the center of which loomed a gargantuan tower shaped like the fangs of the vampires. The bat accelerated faster as it closed the distance, then pulled up at precisely the correct moment, slowing to a normal pace just before the gates of the massive tower.

With a slight pop, Vrayon transformed, shaking his head from side to side and smoothing his wind-ruffled hair. The vampire began marching up the final few of the three hundred steps leading to the fortress's entrance, but a bellow from below stopped him in his tracks.

Smoothly, Vrayon spun on his heel, casting a collected glance down the flight of steps to the small assembly that awaited far below.

"Vrayon!" a harsh voice thundered. "Get your pointy-fanged hissing arse down here!"

The vampire transformed once more, raced down the stairway, then returned to human form just before the group of soldiers.

"Grishnákh," the Remnant General hissed, "I vould appresssiate it if you vould keep your tongue in check vile you are in my domain."

"I'll use whatever damn language I bloody well want to!" the massive orc thundered, taking a menacing step toward the vampire.

Six elite vampire soldiers, who had been attempting to keep the horde in check, simultaneously drew their long swords, points toward the ground, but the message was clear; advance further, and pay the consequences.

Vrayon held up a hand, holding the elites at bay for the time being. He coolly slid forward to meet Grishnákh, staring defiantly into the orc's eyes as he did so. The two stood motionless for a moment, before the larger of the two, Grishnákh, finally stepped back a few paces. The six elites immediately moved to flank their commander, swords still drawn.

Garulf, who had been sitting in human form on one of the steps below the orcs, gazing out into the barren landscape, rose and jogged up the steps to stand before Vrayon.

"Your men here say that we cannot enter," the lychen spoke evenly. "I was unaware that members of the Remnant were allowed such luxuries as denying their fellow soldiers, their," his gleaming red eyes flickered up to the elites, "_Commanders_, entry to fortresses. Is this a new law?"

Vrayon smiled smugly. "No, not at all. In fact," the vampire idly gazed at one of his claws, "It isss vone of ze oldessst lawsss of my people. None but vampiresss shall enter Dol Sssereg1."

"It was my understanding," Garulf countered smoothly, "That when one joined the Remnant, the laws of the alliance preceded tradition."

"Dol Sssereg isss not Remnant property," Vrayon hissed. "Ze barracksss and military compound to ze eassst are. You are velcome to ssstay zere."

The lychen snarled and clenched his fists, prompting the elites behind Vrayon to raise their weapons slightly.

"I will report that you treated commanding officers of the Remnant with utter contempt," Garulf threatened, "refused them the service entitled to them, and spoke against the laws. You know the punishment for treason."

The vampire General shuddered, recalling witnessing the Drow death squads executing those accused of high treason against the Dark Lord.

Vrayon was persistent, defiant even, but no fool. Resisting would get him nowhere but into trouble. Hissing under his breath, the General bowed low, spreading his arms.

"You are correct, General, and I apologissse for ze inconvienence my men may have causssed you. Ve are not acussstomed to visssitorsss, you mussst underssstand. Pleassse, enter. Velcome to Ramgossst."

Garulf grinned broadly. "Wise choice, Vrayon. I thank you, and I believe you will be glad to have us and the information we carry."

Vrayon stood and gestured to the elites, who regretfully sheathed their blades, stepped to the side of the stairs, then snapped to attention and saluted smartly.

The vampire General raised his hand toward the ominous tower. "I eagerly avait ze newsss you bring. Come, ve go to my private quartersss."

The lychen clapped the petulant uruk-hai on the back, then followed the vampire. The orc, turned and gestured to his men, who stood and began to follow the generals, some of them snarling at the vampire elites, who did not flinch, though the feelings conveyed in their eyes were ones of extreme hatred. Once all the orcs and lychens had passed, three of the elites spun and took up the rear of the procession, while the other three returned to their posts at the foot of the stairs.

The interspecies horde marched up the remaining steps to the humungous black gates, which creaked threateningly open. One by one, the soldiers entered into the gloomy darkness of the tower, until the only life remaining outside in the desolate valley were the ever-vigilant guards.

Dilotè groggily opened her eyes, blinking in the glare of the torchlight and the nearly rising sun. She hazily took in her surroundings; she appeared to be in one of the black-camouflaged temporary shelters the Drow stayed in during missions.

_"Awake, I see?" _the familiar baritone questioned from where he sat on his cot.

The Drow girl groaned wearily, covering her eyes with her hand.

_"Feeling that well, eh?" _

The Captain, glanced down at herself, seeing that Turdú had removed her plate armor and over shirt, leaving her with only her short sleeved undershirt.

Turdú turned away slightly, embarrassed.

_"I'm sorry. You were losing a lot of blood, and I..."_

Dilotè weakly raised her hand. _"It's fine." _

She paused, scrutinizing the bandages. _"Was I that bad off?"_

Turdú gestured to a pile of purple blood-soaked rags just outside the tent entrance.

Dilotè let her hand fall down heavily onto the cot she lay upon, releasing a soft grunt.

"_You did well, though," _the General offered.

"_Did I?"_

"_You eliminated the second and third in command of the Venyarohirrim, and you all but captured their leader,"_ Turdú reminded the girl gently.

"_Oh, yeah. The horsewoman. All but captured?"_

"_Well," _Turdú admitted, _"I had to tie her up. But you knocked her out. In fact, she's still unconscious."_

Dilotè smiled slightly at this news. _"How long have I been out?"_

"_Only a few hours," _came the reply.

The girl sighed. _"Good."_

"Sir?" From just outside came the deep bass of the scout from before the battle.

"Come," Turdú responded, rising from his seat to greet the man.

The reconessaince soldier entered, saluting first the General, then the Captain.

"How art thou feeling, ma'am?" he inquired solemnly.

The girl smiled from her position on her bed. "I am much better, thank thee. Forgive me if I do not rise."

"But of course, ma'am."

"The report, sergeant?" Turdú pressed calmly.

"Sir," the sergeant nodded briskly. "There are no enemy soldiers trailing us. I returned to the battle site, and I must say, it is quite impressive."

"Mornië will be pleased," Turdú commented.

"Indeed he shall, sir."

Turdú nodded, inspecting his ceremonial dagger that he always kept at his waist. He glanced up suddenly, drawing the blade, his dark eyes shining. "Kneel."

The soldier's eyes flickered questioningly, and his glance shot to Dilotè, who had closed her eyes, resting again. After a moment's hesitation, the soldier dropped to one knee before the General.

"Captain," Turdú called softly.

"Mm?" Dilotè groaned, eyes still closed.

"If thou could spare one more moment of rest," Turdú offered.

The girl's eyes opened, shot first to Turdú's face, then the soldier's, and finally the dagger. She then painfully propped herself onto one elbow, her eyes glowing.

Turdú catiously slid one hand behind Dilotè's unharmed shoulder, assisting her, while with the other, he touched the sergeant's forehead with the blade of his dagger.

"Name, soldier," the General commanded.

"Velkyn Tenn," the soldier answered.

"Sergeant Velkyn Tenn," Turdú recited, "By the power invested in me, General Turdú Morngul, and Captain Dilotè Linta, by the Dark Lord and Savior Maneva Mornië, I hereby promote thee to the rank of First Lieutenant in the Remnant army. Rise, Lieutenant."

Velkyn's face glowed with pride as he rose from his knee. Turdú gently eased Dilotè back onto the cot, turned, searched through his pack for a pair of Lieutenant shoulder stripes, and then handed them to the newly promoted soldier.

"Place these on thy uniform," the General instructed, "And have one of the orderlies paint another stripe on they armor."

"Yes, sir," Velkyn beamed.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant. I will see thee in the next officers meeting," Turdú saluted.

"Thank thee, sir."

"Thou earned it, soldier."

As the assembly of soldiers entered the main hall of Dol Sereg, Vrayon gestured down the hallway to the right.

"If ze sssoldiersss vould be ssso kind asss to follow my elitesss," Vrayon suggested, "Zey vill show you to your quartersss. Ze Generalsss may come to my quartersss vith me."

The vampire turned to his comrades. "Are your captainsss presssent?"

"Captain Wyvren is currently commanding the troops inside Lycha," Garulf responded.

"As of last night, I have no Captain," Grishnákh growled. "He was killed, along with all his soldiers, in the forests of your lands."

"I am deeply grieved," Vrayon hissed, sounding not the least bit sorry. "I assure you, it vasss not my troopsss zat ssslew zem, zough ve did take down ze infidelsss who did so. As a matter of fact, I jussst lossst my own Captain a few hoursss ago to rebelsss, which probably ssslew yoursss, earlier."

Grishnákh growled in answer, turning to his troops. "Follow the elites."

The orcs and lychens saluted, spun, and continued down the hall behind the three vampire soldiers.

"Vell zen," Vrayon hissed, "Shall ve move to my quartersss?"

A few minutes later, the Generals saluted the guards outside Vrayon's private headquarters, entered the door, and sat at the large table that Vrayon gestured to.

"Ssso," the vampire began as he sat, "Vat newsss do you bring to me?"

"The Udunaedos are in your country," Garulf spoke sharply and straight to the point. "We are here to assist you in killing them."

"I had guesssed zat zey vere here. However, I do not believe I requesssted your asssissstanssse, did I?"

Garulf smiled smugly. "You did not, but Mornië did. It is by his order that we are here."

Vrayon stroked his goatee thoughtfully. Mornië had great confidence in the vampire, but he knew that the Drow looked derisively upon the orc and lychen, using them as arrow-fodder. The Dark Lord would certainly not expect, even with the assistance of the other two Generals, that Vrayon would have the ability to slay the Noldor. In fact, the vampire recalled his Master having once commented that the only one who could kill the elves would be Mornië himself. Though Vrayon questioned that fact, he knew that he was not in any mood to take the Udunaedos on at the moment.

Mornië knew this, Vrayon was certain. Therefore, the farce of killing the two champions was not the real reason that Mornië had sent Garulf and Grishnákh. The Drow was counting on Vrayon to determine that reason.

The vampire recalled Turdú countering Mornië's comment by saying that if he, Vrayon, and Dilotè were to fight the Noldor, that they could slay them. Surprisingly, the Dark Lord had ceded that the comment could have truth in it. Yet, he had not sent either of the other Drow.

Vrayon wondered where Turdú was, and then recalled Mornië's brilliant plan in the Dead Marshes. A mission that Turdú could actually accomplish, the vampire thought to himself sarcastically. The Drow General had failed to acquire the coveted Night Crystal again and again...

That was it. Vrayon had consistently proved to Mornië that he would put everything he had into completing any mission he was assigned. By sending the other two Generals and not Turdú, Mornië was ordering him to secure the Night Crystal.

The vampire spun on his heel.

"Lieutenant!" he barked at the door, which swung open immediately, opened by a guard, sword drawn.

Upon seeing the vampire General standing with a smile, the Lieutenant sheathed his blade and saluted smartly. "Sir!"

"Get me Major Ravnor," Vrayon ordered sharply.

The lieutenant saluted and exited the room.

"What is the meaning of this?" Garulf growled questioningly.

Vrayon held up a hand, halting the inquiry. The lychen snarled softly and leaned back in his chair, glaring harshly at the vampire.

A moment later, the Lieutenant returned with a tall, gaunt soldier that, though he would haunt the dreams of humans, would be the poster-boy of the vampire army.

"Commander," the vampire snapped with a salute, showing his set of blue stripes that signified the rank of Major, the third highest rank in the Remnant.

"Kneel, Major," Vrayon ordered briskly.

Ravnor's eyes widened as he knelt, not quite believing what was happening.

Vrayon spun his ceremonial dagger from inside his cloak and touched the other vampire's forehead. "By ze power invesssted in me, Vrayon, and zessse two Generalsss, by Maneva Mornië, I declare you Captain of ze Vampire Army of ze Remnant. Rissse, Captain."

The newly promoted Captain rose to his feet and saluted sharply.

"To what do I owe zisss honor?" Ravnor inquired, still somewhat shocked.

"I have a special mission for you, Captain," Vrayon hissed.

"Oy, this should be interesting," Grishnákh snarled.

Vrayon grinned a disturbing smile, revealing his long white fangs.

"Oh, it shall, my friend."

1 The Tower of Blood


	50. Chapter IL: Heavy Weaponry

Chapter IL: Heavy Weaponry 

The call to arms, a clanging silver bell, resounded off the ancient halls of the elven fortress, sending their clear, urgent tone to all the rooms of Rivendell. Lynza gave the rope pulley one final tug, sending a closing note echoing over the forest, then leaned against the railing of the spire she stood in, surveying the action that materialized below her.

Soldiers scurried back and forth, securing weapons, armoring themselves, and locating their squads. The vampire noted with pleasure that none seemed to question why they were being called; the soldiers willingly prepared themselves for the unknown.

A sudden clamor of metal behind the girl caused her to whirl about in surprise, coming face to face with Mordae, who had one hand raised in a gesture of surrender.

"And you say I'm high strung?" the giant mused. "It appears I'm not the only one."

Lynza glared playfully at the elf as he swung toward her by the rope, sending a crystalline note pealing once more. Landing lightly on his feet, Mordae hopped to the vampire's side, leaning comfortably against the railing beside her.

"Why are you moping around up here?" the elf asked, knowing full well why Lynza had fled the quarters where Niphredil resided as soon as it was polite to do so.

"I'm alerting the soldiers," the girl explained, dodging Mordae's question.

_"Perianquende," _the giant spat with a small laugh, idly gazing out over the orderly chaotic scene below the two.

Lynza sighed and smiled weakly.

"Listen," Mordae insisted, placing his hand lightly on the girl's shoulder. "I don't care that you didn't tell us about you and Vrayon beforehand. I don't care that you're related to him. It's fine, and quite understandable, as a matter of fact. I would be worried to reveal the fact that I'm really related to Mornië."

There was a long silence as Lynza drew a shuddering breath.

"I always suspected Uncle Mornië was insane, but..." the elf trailed off, as if recalling past memories.

Lynza grinned her fanged smile and punched Mordae lightly on the shoulder.

"There we go," the giant sighed, returning the grin. "You're much prettier when you smile. Moping around just doesn't fit you."

The vampire stuck her tongue out slightly at Mordae, who obligingly returned the gesture.

The two stood in silence for a moment as they observed the vampire soldiers arranging themselves in their battalions.

"So," Lynza began tentatively. "How do you know that elf? Niphre...?"

"Niphredil," Mordae completed. "She's my best friend's girlfriend."

"Ah, really now?"

The elf raised his eyebrows. "You sound surprised."

Lynza shrugged slightly. "I just thought...from the way you were with her...that you were...you know..."

"Me and Niphredil?" Mordae let out a bark of laughter. "I love Niphredil as a friend, but she and I are like hobbits and brains, we just don't work together."

The vampire grinned slightly and exhaled. "Good."

"Good?" the elf sounded more amused than questioning.

"I just..."

"Jealous?" Mordae teased. "Can't resist the Royal-hotness?"

"More like the Royal-Pain-in-the-Arse," Lynza quipped, kicking the elf teasingly in the shin.

"Ouch, that one stung."

The vampire grinned. "Can't handle a little friendly teasing?"

"Not the lame one-liner," Mordae complained. "The iron-tipped boot digging into my leg."

Lynza's grin grew larger, and she struck playfully at the elf, who whipped into a handstand on the railing, dodging the blow.

The vampire leaned back casually, driving her elbow into Mordae's back, sending the elf over the guardrail, where he hung, glaring mockingly up at her.

"Okay, fine," Mordae ceded. "You win."

Lynza smirked, reached down to pull the elf up, then, once he had regained his footing, the vampire began waltzing down the stairs.

"Where you going?" Mordae queried, swinging once more over by the bell pulley, causing Lynza to cover her ears as the clanging metal rang in her ears.

"In case you've forgotten, Sir Hotness," the vampire taunted as she raced down the stairwell. "We have a battle to attend to."

Draylen glanced up as a rap on his door echoed through his sparse chamber.

The vampire glimpsed down, cinched the final clasp on his chest plate, then raised his head once more.

"Come," the vampire barked, expecting an orderly or a questioning sergeant.

The door whipped open, followed by Celebdraug's beaming face. "Boo."

Draylen hefted his broadsword from its mount on the wall, wrapped the holding belt around his shoulder, yanked the strap until it was snug, and then looped it in the traditional vampire fashion around itself at his shoulder, securing the blade on his back.

"And what are we so happy about?" the vampire inquired as he attached a vicious looking dagger to his right leg.

"Battle coming," Celebdraug replied, springing lightly onto the vampire Lieutenant's bed, where the remainder of his weapons sat. "We gets to kill dwarveses."

Draylen smiled broadly. "Fun fun."

There was a moment's silence as he secured yet another blade to his forearm.

"Are you suited up already?" the vampire questioned incredulously, glancing up at the girl, who was intently scrutinizing his preparation routine.

Celebdraug nodded emphatically, rising and twirling in a small circle, revealing the half dozen swords and daggers she carried on her mail guarded body along with the two quivers of arrows and the shimmering longbow.

Draylen cocked his head to the side. "No plate armor?"

"It restricts my movement too much," the elf explained, dropping back onto the vampire's cot. "I only wear plate for big battles."

"This is pretty major," Draylen countered.

"They're dwarves."

The vampire shrugged and swung his _vrylna _onto his back, along with a neatly arranged pack of nearly two hundred _lizcan._

"Ooh," Celebdraug cried, bouncing up and down slightly. "Give me one!"

Draylen raised one eyebrow as he surveyed the arsenal that the elf bore. "Where would you put it?"

"I'll make room," Celebdraug insisted. She widened her eyes, making them as sad looking as possible, an expression feared by Mordae, known only as The Look.

The vampire sighed, whirled back into one of his storage closets for a moment, and then returned, carrying two _vrylna_ and two hundred more of the shining disks.

"I don't need two," Celebdraug commented, slightly confused.

"Give one to Mordae," Draylen explained. "Otherwise, he'll be all jealous and whiny."

The elf giggled. "Good point."

Draylen assisted Celebdraug in rearranging her armaments to accommodate the bow-like weapon, then inhaled deeply.

"I'm coming with you, you know," the vampire muttered quietly.

Celebdraug cocked her head in question.

"To rescue your friends. I'm coming with you, and you can't stop me."

The elf pondered for a moment, and then grinned slightly. "Sounds good to me."

Draylen raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to argue with me?"

"Nah," Celebdraug replied. "It takes too much energy. Besides, I could always use a shield."

Draylen shrugged happily. "I'm always willing."

"Just try not to get any more blood on me without letting me know," the elf chided. "It's not that I mind it or anything, it's just not pleasant to have somebody explode all over you."

"You are no fun."

The vampire completed his preparations in silence, securing the last of his weapons. Finally, Draylen stood up to his full six and a half foot height, shook his nearly shoulder length black hair, then looped his bladed staff over his back.

"Ready?" the vampire inquired.

Celebdraug grinned maliciously.

"As an un-wise man once said, I was born ready."

In the room conjoined to Draylen's, Mordae barely looked up from his preparations as the door swung open swiftly.

"Put these on," Lynza's voice grunted as she dumped a massive pile of plate armor on his bed.

Now the elf glanced up in confusion, and after sliding a dagger into his belt, he inquired, "Why?"

"Because, if you don't, every Remnant vampire in Ramgost is going to be trying to shove their swords down your throat."

Mordae nodded slowly in acknowledgement, wondering exactly how that was possible. "Good point."

Reaching down, the elf lifted the black breastplate and held it against himself. "Will it fit?" he inquired, turning to gaze into the decorative mirror on the far wall.

Lynza shrugged, then added, "I don't care if the first thing you do once we're inside is throw it at a random dwarf. Just wear it at the beginning; I'd rather not have any trouble, if that's okay with you."

With a slight nod, Mordae began sliding the plate armor over his outer tunic and pants, adjusting his blades as he did so.

"I'll be right back," the vampire called over her shoulder as she strode for the dividing door. "I need to give Celebdraug the rest of this junk."

Mordae saluted, then bent back over his work, mumbling to himself about the inefficiently of it all.

The walls of Mornië's new headquarters loomed above the procession of black clad warriors as they entered the gates of the castle. Turdú glanced up and nodded to the archers atop the ramparts as he rode below them. In front of the General, Dilotè groaned softly and opened her eyes slightly, gazing up at Turdú.

"_Are we there?"_

Turdú nodded and fixed his gaze on the massive entryway, where a dozen Drow elite soldiers stood on both sides, flanking a lone, ominous, figure. The man in the center lifted one hand in welcome, and Turdú saluted stiffly in return; no matter how high-ranking one was, or how often one was in the presence of the Dark Lord, it was always an imposing experience.

"General Turdú," Mornië called, striding forward to meet the Drow, "Thou hast brought me good news, I pray."

"Indeed I have, lord. The Dead Marshes were an excellent success; my scouts report hundreds of thousands casualties from both sides."

The Remnant commander grinned broadly. "And..."

Turdú gestured to his right, to the massive black steed where Aragorn, Athfaë, and Gandalf were restrained.

"Though they did resist quite strongly," Turdú gestured to Dilotè, who had mostly recovered, "We took them without any losses. Captain Dilotè was injured in a very heroic escapade in which she battled several of the highest ranking Venyarohirrim, whom she killed."

Mornië grinned at the Drow girl, who saluted with barely contained malice in her eyes.

"Come," the Dark Lord beckoned, turning and beginning to march deeper into the city. "We have many interesting tasks that need attending to."

Draylen and Celebdraug exited the vampire's quarters, meeting Mordae and Lynza just outside the rooms.

"This armor is _rac_," Celebdraug whined as she slammed heavily into the railing on the room's balcony. "I can hardly move."

"Quit your whining," Lynza ordered. "It will be a lot easier wearing the plate than fighting off the Remnant in your mail."

"True," the elf surrendered. "But I still don't like it."

Mordae draped his dark cloak over his shoulders with one hand, extending the other toward his cousin. Celebdraug took her robes from him, grumbling about stupid vampires and their ridiculously hot outfits, then begrudgingly slung it over her back.

"Time to get moving," Lynza commented, gazing at the slowly lightening sky. "We don't want to get stuck out in the sunrise."

Draylen nodded and began jogging down the path, calling over his shoulder, "Last one to the front is a hobbit-kisser!"

Celebdraug grinned and poked Mordae in the forehead, where the runes, despite vigorous cleansing attempts, still shone for all to see.

The giant swiped playfully at his cousin, who bolted off down the path, tripped over herself, encumbered by her weighty armor, and sprawled heavily onto the ground.

Lynza darted past Celebdraug, barely noticing, but Mordae paused long enough to kneel beside his cousin and poke her between the eyes.

The elf maiden glared fiercely at Mordae, who beamed at her, then sprinted away, leaving Celebdraug to clamber to her feet.

"_I hope a dwarf gets you!" _she screamed sarcastically after the giant as he fled.

"_Probably will!" _he responded, just before disappearing around the final corner.

Celebdraug shook her head and bolted off after Mordae, seriously considering slashing him with one of her daggers once she caught up.

The two vampires slid to a stop beside Zalok and a few other lieutenants standing at the head of the Tvhestan army. A moment later, Mordae pounded to a halt beside them, followed shortly afterward by a red faced Celebdraug.

Draylen acknowledged the elf's arrival with a nod. "Hobbit-kisser."

"Can it, Fang-boy," Celebdraug spat teasingly, uncomfortably adjusting her plate armor. "I still hate this."

"Good to know you're consistent," Draylen offered.

Before Celebdraug could retort, Niphredil came bounding up to the group, dressed in shimmering mail armor and bearing a long sword and dagger.

"_Okay, what in Udun is going on here?" _Mordae inquired confusedly.

"_I'm coming with you, right?"_ the Silvan prompted.

"_Well, I suppose, yes," _the Noldor responded, glancing over his shoulder at his cousin, who shrugged.

"_I'm not planning to be at the front of the battle," _Niphredil explained, _"But, at the moment, I certainly don't feel like going anywhere unarmed."_

"_Do you even know how to use a sword?" _Celebdraug questioned.

Niphredil shrugged. _"It can't be that hard, can it?"  
_The two Noldor and their vampire counterparts exchanged knowing glances, shaking their heads at the naivety that the Silvan displayed.

"_Besides," _Niphredil continued. _"When we get to Glorfindel and the others, I want a piece of Mornië."_

Celebdraug nodded in agreement.

"_Don't we all."_


	51. Chapter L: Let the Bodies Hit the Floor

_**Chapter L: Let the Bodies Hit the Floor**_

"Glorfindel, my pet! I brought thee some friends!" Mornië's voice rang out joyously through the torture chambers.

_"Ooh! Did they bring cards?"_ a weak voice wafted from one of the dungeon cells.

The Drow gestured to the burly elites carrying the three captives, and as one, they slammed their prisoners onto separate tables, strapping them down harshly.

Aragorn opened his eyes partially; they were nearly swollen shut from the beating he had received on the way into the interrogation chamber. He blearily took in the surrounding stone walls, Drow soldiers, and orc guards all around the three. From a cell far to the right, a gaunt, dirty being was hoisted roughly out and smashed into a table beside the Ranger.

_"Hello," _the corpse-like creature greeted Aragorn cheerily as a grotesque orc slammed him onto the table to the Ranger's right.

_"Glorfindel?"_

_"Yeah. How are you doing?"_

Aragorn rolled his eyes, amazed that Glorfindel could be in such a joyous mood in his current condition.

_"Man," _the elf continued, _"You don't look so good."_

_"You don't exactly look like a Vala yourself," _Aragorn retorted.

_"Ah, really? I got all cleaned up so I could see you," _the Silvan quipped._ "Oh, yes, by the way. The next time you want a message delivered somewhere, do it your damn self."_

Aragorn let out a snort of laughter, then fell silent as Mornië strode between the two.

"_Lord_ Aragorn," the Drow mocked derisively. "A pleasure to meet thee."

Aragorn stared straight up, as if contemplating the bleak ceiling.

"I see that thou are not as talkative as thy subordinate," the Drow observed, bending over the Ranger so that Aragorn had no choice but to glare into his eyes.

Mornië nodded once, and the Drow elite standing beside the deposed king jerked hard on one of the gears attached to the table, bending Aragorn's joints against their natural direction, causing the man to bite his lip as the pain began to set in.

_"You have severe problems, you know that?" _Glorfindel spat from behind Mornië.

The Drow commander turned slowly to face his sarcastic captive.

"Thou still defieth me?"

_"Is there anything better for me to do?"_

An explosion of pain waves struck the Silvan, causing him to convulse, but not cry out.

As Maneva strode haughtily toward Athfaë and Gandalf, Aragorn shot a concerned look at Glorfindel, who shrugged.

_"I'm used to it."_

The Ranger sighed. "I apologize with all my heart."

The elf rolled his eyes. _"Save it, buddy. It's fine."_

The two lapsed into silence as the Dark Lord moved to the other Grand Wizard, who lay atop a table to Aragorn's left, straining irately at his manacles.

"Justice is sweet. Am I not right, Mithrandir?" the Drow inquired viciously, using the elven name Gandalf had been called in the Second Age.

"You cannot hold me, Dark One."

"That may be true, my friend," Mornië quipped, "but those restraints seem to be doing an excellent job."

Flame swirled in Gandalf's normally shining eyes, but other than that, no sign of his rage appeared.

_"Istarion-arof__1_ Mithrandir" the Dark Lord explained. "The Wizard's-Bane. A plant native to my homelands in the south, used by the Halda'ohtar as a poison for their arrow tips. The plant, interestingly enough, releases a neurotoxin that neutralizes brain waves. If humans or orcs ingest it in any way, it causes nearly immediate brain death; with elves or vampires, it results in temporary paralysis after a few hours. The Halda'ohtar would shoot captives or those who they wished to take captive, then wait for the victim to fall to the poison."

The Drow began to pace in slow circles around the wizard, who followed him with hollow eyes. Everyone else in the room had ceased their activity as well so as to listen to the biology lecture.

'The effect on wizards such as ourselves, however, is what gives it the name 'Wizard's-bane'. For some unknown reason, the toxin cancels out the higher-level brain waves that allow us to perform our..."

Mornië raised one hand toward the dark ceiling, grinning maliciously. Torrents of black flame whirled around the Drow in a blazing cyclone, then hurled themselves around Gandalf's table, dancing morbidly in the dim light they cast.

The anguished screams of the wizard rang through the chamber as the fire ate slowly away at him, controlled by the twisted mind of Maneva Mornië.

"Feats," the Drow concluded, clenching his fist. The flames vanished, and the crack of Gandalf's arms snapping echoed through the room, which then fell deathly silent, all eyes on the enraged Dark Lord.

"Let this be a lesson to you, Mithrandir," the dark elf snarled, resuming his pacing. "Justice comes to those who deserve it, and even the light cannot stop it."

With that, Mornië stalked from the room, letting the image of the hellish inferno and the sound of Gandalf's tormented moans remain in the minds of all who doubted his power.

Just before reaching the top of the staircase leading from the interrogation chamber, the Dark Lord paused, turning slowly.

He gestured to the Drow elites, led by Dilotè and Turdú. "Begin."

The dark elves saluted and moved to the various tables, preparing to begin their reprehensible duties.

The early dawn sky above Ramgost was darkened by the approaching horde of bats from the southeast. The respect and awe that the cloud of vampires commanded was evident by the tight formations they flew in. Had one been able to view the armament of advanced weapons that they carried, the admiration would have been greater still. At the head of the swarm flew Lynza and Draylen, below which raced Mordae and Celebdraug, and as they traveled, the four went over the battle plans that they would implement.

I for one would love to have the two of you lead the attack, Lynza commented. I have heard so much of your battle prowess, that I believe I would learn great lessons from you. 

Lazy bum, Mordae retorted.

Hardly, the vampire insisted. It's called _delegating._

_Perianquende_. 

Why not, Mordae? Celebdraug countered. If there's a job to be done, it may as well be done correctly. 

In that case, Draylen interrupted, I'll lead it. 

No, no, Draylen, Lynza soothed, as if speaking to a small child. We want to _win_ the battle. 

Oh! Is that what I've been doing wrong recently? the other vampire inquired sarcastically.  
As a matter of fact, Celebdraug responded, That may be it. You see, Draylen, the object is to _not_ get shot. 

Darn. I was good at that. 

Indeed you were, the elf agreed.

Can I ask a random question? Lynza inquired, changing the subject rapidly.

You just did, Mordae observed. Moving on... 

Shut it, Lynza teased. Why did we allow Niphredil to come along? 

Mordae shot a glance over his shoulder at the Silvan who ran several hundred yards behind him. While running still faster than a human, and an impressive pace for having six hours ago just completed a literal cross-country run, the elf was obviously tiring and having problems keeping up.

I have no idea, the giant answered. We're pushovers, I suppose. 

Well, Celebdraug countered, We can't very well leave her here, right? 

True, Draylen agreed.

She's just going to get herself killed, though, Lynza argued forcefully.

I will stay behind with her, Zalok who flew behind the other two vampires, suddenly announced.

What have I told you about doing that? the vampire commander chided.

You should talk, Celebdraug pointed out.

I will stay with her, the Lieutenant repeated.

We need you at the front lines, Lynza countered.

I will come in and meet you as soon as we arrive. We will not be more than an hour behind. 

Wait a minute, wait a minute! Mordae's voice was urgent. Won't you poof or something? 

I told you that was a myth, Lynza began.

I know, the elf interrupted dismissively. But it still won't be comfortable. 

I will fly low in the trees, Zalok explained. I should escape with only minimal discomfort. 

What if this whole thing was a trap? Celebdraug suddenly admonished. Vrayon could be luring us here so that you will all become weak and get hurt so that he can take you all down later! 

Excellent point, but I already considered it, Lynza argued. First of all, if that was the case, we could just do as Zalok suggested and hide in the forest. It would be painful, but not unbearable. Second, I don't think that it's possible that Vrayon wants to do that. He needs the ring just as badly – or worse, perhaps – as you do. I don't think he would pass up this opportunity. 

Celebdraug did not answer this, her way of acknowledging that, though she did not fully trust the vampire's logic, it would do for now.

In any event, Mordae interjected, breaking the silence, I suppose we will lead, if you insist. 

Be my guest, Lynza surrendered. And Zalok, you may stay with the elf. 

Keep in mind, if you do anything, Mordae counseled, Her boyfriend could mess you and all the other Lieutenants up at the same time. 

Understood, sir. 

The bat dropped altitude and winged back toward the other elf without another word.

So, will you be leading our forces? Lynza pressed once more, after a moment.

If you insist, Mordae surrendered. Illúvatar's breath, you're pushy. 

The bat dropped altitude suddenly, whirled in a loop, then smacked the elf across the face with one of its wings. Mordae swatted playfully at the creature, which spiraled back into formation.

Right then, Celebdraug began, speaking only to Mordae. What shall we do? 

Rising from the forest floor in the lands of ancient Agmar and Rhudar loomed the massive gray peaks of the Misty Mountains. It was here that the chain began, ranging from the northernmost inhabited area of Middle Earth to the borders of Isen Meares. The country had once been the home of the Witch-king, the most powerful of the nine Nazgul, but it had long faded into waste. It was in this realm, at the head of the Third Age, unknown to all beings save themselves, the dwarves constructed their greatest and final stronghold, its title given in the native tongue for 'dwarf'; Khazad.

But now, in the Fourth Age, a sea of black-cloaked warriors surrounded the once undiscovered gates of Khazad that sat on the side of the mountain, and the skies above filled with a swirling maelstrom of bats.

Before the fading outline of the gate, which appeared only in the moonlight, five dark figures stood, two in front, and three behind the smaller of the two.

"Vere isss Vrayon?" Lynza hissed to the Captain that stood before her, a man she did not recognize.

"He had...urgent busssinesss," the vampire replied. "I am Ravnor, hisss Captain."

"I sssee he replasssesss hisss officersss quite quickly."

"Indeed," Ravnor smiled, revealing his long fangs. "You vill find me much more difficult to kill, I presssume."

"I would not count on it." Lynza beamed innocently, but her eyes betrayed barely contained hatred for the being before her. Any representative of Vrayon was her enemy, and this man was no different.

The Captain shrugged off the threat and gestured to the other vampire. "You have ze keysss?"

Lynza nodded curtly, holding her hand back toward one of the warriors behind her. The soldier, Draylen, slid a gloved hand from under his cloak, in which sat two shimmering crystals.

Ravnor exhaled, then extended one hand. "Zey mussst be inssserted at ze sssame time. An old dwarven trick."

"You know your factsss, Captain," Lynza commended.

"Zank you..."

"General."

"General?" Ravnor's eyes widened. "I did not know I vould be vorking vith a General."

"Pleasssure doing busssinesss vith you," Lynza acknowledged with a slight courtesy.

The Remnant Captain respectfully drew the key from Lynza's hand, and he stood before the door, preparing to insert the crystal.

"Vone final sssuprissse," Lynza admonished.

Ravnor glanced up slowly.

"My men go firssst."

"I cannot allow zat," the Captain began to argue.

Lynza silenced him with a wave of her hand. "You vill. Trussst me. Zey know vat zey are doing."

The two vampires stared coldly into one another's eyes for a long moment before the Remnant soldier finally nodded and turned to his men.

"Follow ze mersssenariesss! Zey are to enter firssst!"

Despite the mumbled complaints that washed through the assembled Remnant troops, they appeared to be set on following whatever orders they were given.

Lynza saluted Ravnor, stepped forward, and aimed the key for the fading outline of a circle in the center of the rock wall gate. The General nodded, and as one, the crystals plunged inward. Draylen and the other two figures standing behind the Tvhestan commander strode forward, along with several dozen other militants, longbows and _vrylna_ at the ready.

The ring is on the king, the largest of the soldiers, Mordae, advised Draylen and his cousin, who had positioned themselves on either side of the giant.

May the best girl reach him first, Celebdraug challenged, her grin concealed by her facemask.

I guess that leaves you and Draylen, Mordae sighed.

The vampire's protest was drowned out by the rumble of the great door as it began to slide open, dropping dust and gravel as it groaned outward, concealing the three from any eyes on the inside.

The two elves detected a minimal shuffling sound behind the flying grit, and with a snap, they sent two of their long darts into the cloud. Draylen fired an instant later, and the chorus of clattering armor that resulted confirmed that there had been guards, though they were most likely expecting a friendly visit from their kin.

What the survivors received, however, was the far-from-pleasant experience of having elven daggers thrust through their necks as the Udunaedos launched themselves through the entryway, rearming their bows even before they landed.

Before the elves lay a long, hundred meter wide hallway filled with various dwarves milling about, performing their day-to-day duties. The few extra soldiers that happened to be in range fell in rapid succession to the wooden bolts of the two intruders. The destruction was increased as Draylen and Lynza lunged through the entryway, firing their _lizcan_ at random, felling civilians and soldiers alike, adding to the general chaos.

_"Naust!" _Celebdraug screamed, pushing Draylen to the right side of the hall as Mordae dove to the left, ushering Lynza along with him.

There was a shrill whistle as hundreds of disks whipped through the diminishing dust cover, deflecting off one another and into the scattering dwarves. The Tvhestan soldiers burst through a moment later, some running, others flying above, until they had formed a line stretching the length of the hall.

At the elves' command, they began to advance, crouching low, firing their _lizcan, _while the remainder of the militants poured in above them, wings fluttering as they came.

A dwarf a few dozen meters down the hall fell heavily, a forearm plate-armor piece crushing his chest. A moment later, another was hurled back, a breastplate cleaving him nearly in half.

Lynza shot a glance to her right, where Mordae stood, missing several pieces of his armor and holding a shoulder plate in his right hand.

The elf met her gaze, shrugged, and hurled the plate into another fleeing creature.

"What in the name of the Moon are you doing?" the General cried above the din of the battle.

"You said you wouldn't mind if the first thing I did was throw my armor at random dwarves!" Mordae answered, beaming at the vampire.

Lynza rolled her eyes as she smiled. "You're insane."

"Thank you."

**"MORNIË!"**

The sound of the battle was nearly drowned out by the roar from the outside as several thousand Remnant vampires screamed their battle cry, and with the sound of a hurricane, began whirling into the dwarven fortress.

The Battle of Khazad had begun.

1 Wizard's Bane


	52. Chapter LI: And Indiana Jones Thinks He ...

_**Chapter LI: And Indiana Jones Thinks He Has it Bad...**_

Shouts of the dwarves and echoes of crashing metal resounded through the halls of Khazad as the vampire onslaught continued unchecked. The main entry hall had now been passed by the advancing line of _vrylna_ soldiers, leaving it bloodied and body strewn, and still they came, laying waste to the fleeing dwarves.

Mordae and Celebdraug, though on opposite sides of the hall, continued to maintain contact through their mind link, relaying ideas and communications instantly across the battlefield. The elves had exchanged their longbows for _vrylna_, and had joined the vampires in firing volleys of the shimmering _lizcan_ down the dark passageways.

Celebdraug had thoroughly enjoyed Mordae's innovative plate armor attack, and had integrated it into a technique of her own; armor shooting. The elf would remove a section of her protective covering, align it on her _vrylna_, and then launch it – albeit clumsily – into the fray, where it would either strike down a random target, or simply embed itself in one of the walls.

Enjoying yourselves over there? Mordae inquired teasingly, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of Celebdraug and Draylen, who fought beside one another.

Oh, yes, Draylen responded mockingly. I just love battlefield dates. 

Really? Celebdraug replied enthusiastically. Me, too! 

Lynza and Mordae, who were alongside one another on the opposite side of the hall, laughed in reply.

Draylen shook his head and glanced at Celebdraug. You have severe problems. 

Severe is relative. 

The vampire tossed a single _lizcan_ disk lightly at the feet of the elf, who kicked it back at him, sticking her tongue out in addition.

The line of soldiers continued their methodical charge, so far taking only a few losses. Above them, the cloud of bats whipped up and down, swarming any stray dwarves that happened to have escaped the slaughter.

Suddenly, several dozen dwarves burst forth from one of the higher elevated tunnels a hundred meters down the hall, surrounding a heavily armored dwarf in the center, which carried a massive torch. The throng raced toward a distant cauldron a few dozen meters away, battering furiously at the cloud of bats that threatened to sweep them away.

"**Concentrate fire!"**Celebdraug thundered, her order accompanied almost immediately by the hiss of several hundred _lizcan_ shredding the bulk of the group to ribbons as they charged.

As one, the two elves traded their _vrylna_ for bows, nocked three arrows each, then launched them through the skull of the torchbearer, sending his nearly decapitated body spinning from the wall.

I hope this doesn't stay this easy, Lynza quipped, releasing another _lizcan _into the terrified dwarf resistance.

Mordae let out a small snort of amusement, redrawing his _vrylna _releasing another trio of projectiles down the hall.

Above them, one of the few survivors of the original horde – missing an arm, limping, and bleeding from many lacerations – stumbled to the sputtering torch, hefted it with his remaining appendage, and then hurled it with all his might at the distant cauldron. A second volley of shimmering _lizcan_ shattered both the torch and the creature, eliminating them both entirely.

I wonder if that hurt, Draylen mused. Oh, well. 

The glow of yet another torch burst from underneath the cauldron as several dozen more dwarves burst from a tunnel one level below the massive pot, which was now only forty meters from the advancing line.

Before Celebdraug could order another volley, Draylen raised his _vrylna_, squinted one eye, and released a shot, sending one disk skipping off the head of a dwarf nearby the torchbearer, which took the other two through the neck.

Nice shot, Celebdraug complimented as Mordae sounded the volley command.

I have lots of time to practice. 

Good thing you found me, the elf commented wryly.

The vampire nodded sagely. Moving targets are much better, yes. 

Celebdraug stuck her tongue out at her companion, released her _lizcan_, and then blew a stray strand of her hair from her eyes.

"**DOWN!" **Mordae's scream echoed down the hall, jolting the gathered soldiers into an immediate response.

A massive blast rocked the stone walls as the torch, hurled by yet another dutiful dwarf, splashed into the center of the oil filled pot.****

Hundreds of meters away, the light of the exploding oil flickered into view, galvanizing another torchbearer into motion, igniting the second bonfire. As the third inferno ignited, Celebdraug and Mordae recognized the defense method of the Gondorians; a blazing relay system of warning beacons.

Deep within the mountain, a groaning rumble began to sound, shaking the bones of the attackers.

Mordae rolled his eyes, then glared mock-venomously at Lynza, who shrugged innocently.

I think you're about to have your wish fulfilled, and it's not going to be pretty. 

"I cannot believe," Vrayon chattered excitedly, pacing back and forth in anticipation as the orcs and lychens assembled with his selected dozen elites, "Zat novone ever zought of zisss."

"Though of what," Grishnákh growled in frustration. The vampire had refused to let out his 'secret plan' until all the soldiers had gathered, which had taken quite some time. The orc slammed his fist onto the nearby railing. "Would you sit down?"

Vrayon shot a glare at the General, and then continued. "Vere is ze Night Cryssstal?"

"Dol Guldur, in Mirkwood," Garulf replied, absently running his gloved thumb over his axe blade.

"Correct. If ve know vere it isss, zen vhy do ve not have it?"

"Because," Grishnákh groaned, "It's in Mirkwood. Who knows what kind of creatures live in there; spiders, spirits, elves, all kinds of freaks. It would take twenty thousand of my best men to penetrate as far as Dol Guldur."

"Presssisssely," Vrayon agreed.

"Then what in the name of the Moon is your point?" Garulf half-snarled.

"Ve need not penetrate, ve only need to reach ze tower. I can do zat. I zink."

"How?" Garulf inquired, sitting up slightly, intrigued.

"Ze _za'vryn_," Vrayon responded."Ze Blood Gatesss. Ve usssed zem at New Edorasss, if you recall."

"I do," the lychen nodded. "There is a Gate at Dol Guldur?"

Vrayon shrugged. "If not, there may be one nearby."

"And how can you check?" Grishnákh questioned.

The vampire beamed at the other two Generals, then gestured to them and the other soldiers. "Follow me."

The procession weaved their way down the streets of Dol Sereg, following the cloaked General in the lead. As they passed, the vampire citizens saluted, bowed, or let out patriotic cheers, which the vampire elites responded to warmly.

At last, the group came to a halt before a good-sized structure emblazoned in gold runes and surrounded by hundreds of vampire guards.

"Gentleman," Vrayon began. The vampire shot a slightly-more-than-teasing glance at Garulf, "And ladiesss. Ze _Za'vryn Oni_, ze birthplassse of the Blood Gatesss. Thisss sssite is holy beyond any other conssstruct in our landsss; zerefore, only my elitesss may accompany me inssside. Onssse ve determine vhezer or not zis gate exisssstssss, I shall return to bring you along."

Tired of arguing, Garulf raised his hand dismissively, then dropped it to his side, toying idly with his axe handle.

The vampire General nodded gratefully, gestured to his men, and then whirled in a half circle, marching toward the massive sanctuary.

Mordae shot a fearful glance toward the roof of the cavern as the rumbling continued, building ominously as large boulders began to tumble from their precarious perches above the army, sending up plumes of ashes where they fell.

Draylen reached out for Celebdraug's hand as the two backed against the wall of the cavern, the vampire covering Celebdraug's head with his arms, much to her protests.

The elf's eyes widened suddenly as she detected a faint vibration behind her, and she pulled hard on the vampire's hand, dragging him away from the wall.

"**GET AWAY FROM THE SIDES!"** the General screamed as a metallic scraping sound crescendoed to a feverish pitch.

With an explosion of dust, rock, and ash, massive spikes hissed from the walls, driven by the force of the collapsing tunnel. The barbs whistled from their previously concealed launch tubes and flew into the middle of the hall, impaling even more soldiers as they hurled onward.

Mordae pulled Lynza to the ground as the projectiles zipped overhead, then leaped to his feet, pulling her to the side as heavy boulders dropped from the ceiling, crushing hundreds of the swarming bats above them. With a crack like thunder, the roof began to drop downward, completely intact, with spikes pointed straight toward the surviving soldiers.

Needing no command to do so, the vampires transformed and whirled down the hall, attempting to escape the impending doom. Below them, Mordae and Celebdraug sprinted, dodging falling rocks and clouds of ash, weapons sheathed.

As the hall narrowed, the existing roof began to sink lower as well, forcing the bats to drop altitude, several transforming back into humanoid form, racing behind the elves. The ground began to shake as more and more soldiers set foot on the floor until finally, the crust gave way, revealing the rocks to have been chiseled only a few millimeters thick, previously held by boards that had dropped the several meters onto the spiked pit below, where dozens of vampire soldiers fell to their ashy deaths.

The elves scrambled frantically to maintain their balance on the ever-receding ground as the bats pressed closer and closer to them until the cloud had completely surrounded the heads of the Noldor. Mordae was forced to crouch as the ceiling dropped, and soon after, Celebdraug was obliged to join him, sprinting for all they were worth as the ground gave way. Behind the two, the falling ceiling finally struck, sending a massive shockwave that shattered the remaining rock floor and knocked bats from the sky in every direction.

The Noldor felt themselves swept up as the swarm lifted them over the remaining meters, dropping them on the cold rocks at the entrance to the first of the gargantuan dwarf rooms. With thunderous bangs, the surviving vampires, still numbering in the several thousands, unfurled into their ranks, blades at the ready.

Directly before them stood the massive bulk of the dwarven army, axes poised, and a look of vengeance on every face.

Draylen dropped beside Celebdraug, who threw her arms around him, breathing heavily from the trauma of the cave-in. Lynza appeared beside the two elves, placing a hand on Mordae's slightly quivering shoulders.

The elf glanced at the vampire girl, whose dark eyes offered a look of question. He smiled reassuringly, tossing the dust from his shoulder-length hair.

The elf grinned, drawing his massive broadsword. "I hope the rest of this isn't as easy as that was."

Vrayon gave a subtle nod to the guards as he passed each of them on his trek into the holy building, his gesture returned with salutes on every side. Behind him, the elites had formed two lines and marched in step, heads held high.

After passing thorough many sub-chambers, the vampires finally reached one final, massive door, surrounded by the _Qay'vrn_, the Holy Guard of the vampires, bearing the traditional bladed staffs. Akin to the _Udunaedos_ of the Noldor and the _Halda'ohtar_ of the Drow, the _Qay'vrn_ were feared throughout history, having never lost a battle. The Guard had been the force united by Vrayon and Lynza in the Second Age that had driven off the Lychen attack; many of the Tvhesta had once been _Qay'vrn_, including Draylen, who had been the commander of the Holy Guard before the civil war.

These soldiers guarded the Two Gates with fanatical devotion, forming colonies around their charge, which they defended from any trespassers with an unparalleled ferocity. Of the various cells of _Qay'vrn_, the _Za'vryn Oni _was the most dangerous of all, though they rarely ventured from their post into battle.

Upon reaching the solid gold doors, Vrayon was inspected by a _Qay'vrn_ Captain, who determined that he was indeed the General; then, and only then,was he admitted entry.

The Gate itself was a sight to behold, an arch standing several hundred meters high, and nearly one and a half times as long, though it was only twenty meters wide at the base. Inside the arch swirled a red hurricane of unknown substance that spelled death for any who entered without having first been admitted by the bloodline of the Empire.

As the elites lined the doorway, Vrayon strode to the mosaic of Middle Earth sprawling across the ground before the Gate. The General closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he began to reach out with his mind, searching the world represented by the art on the floor.

As his mind raced across the green strewn forests of Mirkwood, Vrayon searched for the presence of a Gate through which he could travel.

Suddenly, he could feel it, the pull of the ancient technology, drawing him toward itself. As he neared, the ruins around Dol Guldur began to materialize. Charred stone, broken trees, remaining from the battle that had ousted Sauron from his stronghold.

And there, in the center, he could see it. A swirling mass of red, invisible to any eyes but Lynza's and his own. The Gate.

Exhaling sharply, Vrayon snapped open his eyes, spinning on his heel and marching back toward the elites, who followed him from the room without a sound.

As the General and his entourage exited the site, Vrayon noted the crumpled body of an orc soldier laying on the cold ground twenty meters from the Temple steps.

"I told him not to go close to them," Garulf sighed as Vrayon neared. "But he wanted to see inside. They are fast, those Holy Guard of yours."

"Zank you," the vampire acknowledged with a slight bow.

"Did you find the bloody gate?" Grishnákh snarled, storming forward.

"It isss 'Blood Gate', and yesss, I did," Vrayon hissed, coming to a halt in the center of the group.

The sound of a creature clearing its throat behind the General caused him to jump slightly, and he whirled to face the golden armored _Qay'vrn _Captain, who stood with an angered look on his face.

"_Zvran lin kciln ylorn scrvitz Za'vryn!"_ the vampire thundered in his native tongue.

"Ssspeak ze Common Tongue, pleassse," Vrayon replied coolly. "It isss Remnant law."

The two vampires stood staring harshly into one another's eyes, staffs at the ready. The Captain would have struck any lesser creature dead, but as Vrayon was of the royal bloodline, it would be far greater sacrilege to strike him down, not to mention the fact that the General would most likely have been able to defeat the _Qay'vrn._

"You cannot take ze infidelsss into ze Temple," the Captain repeated calmly.

"No, I cannot, and I commend your men for ssslaying ze fool who neared it."

"Are you going to use our sacred gates to transport these scum?" the Captain snarled in anger.

"I am," Vrayon admitted defiantly. "It isss for ze greater good of our people."

"It isss sssacrilege!"

"I am of ze royal bloodline!" the General cried. "My vord isss holy! Ssstand down, Captain!"

With an angry salute, the _Qay'vrn_ spun his staff and whirled back to his post, where he stood stoically, as if the confrontation had never occurred.

Vrayon grinned sheepishly at the other two Generals, spun his own staff in a small circle, then spread his arms.

"Vat can I sssay? My sssubjectsss are loyal to zeir traditionsss."

"Your subjects have a very bad habit of being over-fanatical," Garulf growled to himself, lowering his axe, which he had raised into attack position at the sight of the angry Holy Guard.

"Isss there sssuch a zing?" the vampire inquired in mock-disbelief.

"Yes," Grishnákh snarled. "Not allowing senior officers of the Remnant into fortresses is fanatical. Killing an elite member of the Remnant is fanatical."

Vrayon shrugged innocently.

"In any event," Garulf snarled with a sigh. "Are we going to use the..._za...vryn?"_

"Exsssellent," Vrayon offered in a rare compliment to the Lychen. "Yesss, ve are."

The General gestured to the surrounding Remnant troops. "If you vould all come a bit clossser. Gazer into a sssircle, pleassse..."

A few moments later, the group had assembled in a tight circle around the vampire, who held up one hand.

"Zisss may feel a bit ssstrange, but do not vorry." The General beamed. "I probably vill not let you die."

With that, a rapidly expanding bubble of red mist emanated from the vampire's hand, enveloping the Remnant troops. There was a pause, followed by a deafening crack, and when the mist had cleared, there was not a trace that the soldiers had ever been in Ramgost.


	53. Chapter LII: Big, Ugly, and Dangerous

_**Chapter LII: Big, Ugly, and Dangerous**_

In the giant main hall of Khazad, the two massive armies stood facing one another in stoic silence, mulling calmly over one another's forces. Not a single soldier spoke, no sound was made other than the occasional whisper of metal rubbing against metal as the crowded soldiers pushed against one another. The vampires numbered just over one hundred thousand, but the dwarven army stretched far beyond what could be seen, numbering well over two hundred thousand.

The four leaders of the Remnant/Tvhesta forces surveyed the battlefield chosen for them by their intended victims with anticipation. The hall was enormous, most likely covering several square leagues; though it became too dark to tell after a half league, save for the dim flicker of distant torches upon the pillars.

_**"Who enters our hall dressed for war, slaying our people as if they were livestock?**" _a voice thundered in Khazdul, the language of the dwarven people.

**_"Those who would bring justice for their people!"_** Celebdraug replied harshly, in the same tongue.

"Is there a language you don't speak?" Draylen pondered aloud.

"Hobbitish," Mordae answered.

**_"Justice? Is it just to invade a peaceful city? Is it just to strike down the innocent?"_ **the voice retorted.

**_"Indeed not!" _**Mordae replied. **_"Does the word Nargothrond mean anything to thee?"_**

****The elf's query was met with only silence, his words echoing ominously through the chamber.

"Nargothrond?" Lynza whispered inquisitively.

"Elven city in the First Age," Mordae explained in hushed tones. "Dwarves attacked it randomly. We beat them off, but they killed a lot of innocent people."

"You don't hold grudges, do you?" the girl hissed back, smiling slightly.

"We actually don't care any more," Celebdraug commented. "But it makes for a good point."

Mordae nodded emphatically.

"Well, if you don't mind," Draylen interrupted, "Stop making points and let's get to the fighting."

**_"Surrender to us, and we will spare the vampires! The elves shall die like their kindred!"_**

****"Oh, it's on," Draylen muttered with a massive grin, stepping back from Celebdraug and Mordae, who slowly, ominously, drew their gleaming broadswords.

Mordae shot a smile over his shoulder, then with a cry, bolted forward, blade pointed at the horde of dwarves. **_"Illúvatar!"_**

**"Remnant!"**

**_"Khazad!"_**

"**Tvhesta!"**

**"Draylen!"**

Celebdraug glanced over her shoulder as she sprinted, obviously laughing.

The dwarves, characteristically aggressive, surged forward with axes raised. Similarly, the vampires, who never shied away from a challenge, boiled forward in a dark cloud, this time at a very low altitude, prepared for any of the traps the dwarves may have set.

There was a thunderous crash as the Noldor struck, hurling axes and bodies of dwarves half their size into the air with the force of their blades.

Celebdraug hopped back lightly, out of the range of the half dozen axes that swung menacingly at her. The elf felt the wind as the massive heads passed, and then they were gone, the dwarves straining to stop the momentum their brute force weapons carried. Stepping nimbly forward, Celebdraug whipped her sword across at her waist height, severing the heads of four attackers. As the axe heads began their return paths, the warrior performed a back flip, clearing the weapons. The flaming broadsword jabbed in and out at a blinding pace, becoming a single orange and red blur that blasted through the heads and chests of her opponents.

Mordae's shimmering yellow sword weaved through the dwarves' axe handles and heads, deflecting the blows and sending the weapons spinning off at odd angles, where they slammed into their kin. Due to the small stature of the dwarves, the elf was forced to stand in a low crouch on his toes, cutting his height by a half meter. This stance, while it would make his calves burn after an hour or so, actually made Mordae more mobile and increased his agility.

The vampire horde struck with a rolling crash, the front line releasing thousands of _lizcan_, then transforming into bats and flying to the rear, where they could reload safely while the took two steps forward, fired, and repeated the process. The army advanced slowly and deliberately, sending disks spinning into the mass of dwarves, felling more as time passed.

There was a two hundred meter space where no disks were fired, however. In this gap, the press of the Tvhestan infantry began driving a wedge into the enemy, the ever-widening breach constantly filled with reinforcements from the back.

Draylen slid to a halt beside Celebdraug, beaming playfully. In one hand, he held his bladed staff; with the other, he hurled sets of _lizcan_ into his opponents with blinding speed, quickly emptying the vast majority of the remaining projectiles.

The elf smiled wryly at her companion, reached down with her right hand, and hurled several dozen _lizcan_ far out over the horde of awaiting dwarves, striking down several of the soldiers.

Inefficient, yet lots of fun, Draylen mused.

Celebdraug's grin widened. Yes indeed. 

The vampire took a step to the side, away from the elf, and began twirling his staff in an aggressive figure eight, beating back axes and bodies alike. He blocked enemy attacks both with the blades and with the remainder of his weapon, which had decorative yet purposeful curls of mìthril wound across the entire length of it, providing excellent solidity.

Lynza had positioned herself to Mordae's left, where she expertly held back the tide of half-sized warriors that swirled around the foursome.

Is this better? Mordae questioned good-naturedly as he sliced one of his opponents in half vertically.

Much, the vampire girl replied, rolling under several axes, then rising in the center of a small cluster of dwarves, which she felled easily.

Mordae's eyes shot to the right, just in time for him to catch a throwing axe that had been hurled at his head, which rose high above the battle. The elf glanced back and forth, selected a target – a dwarf fighting less than a meter from Celebdraug – then hurled the weapon with all his might.

Celebdraug leaped back as the axe slammed into the dwarf she had been preparing to strike down, decapitating her target. She glanced in the direction that the weapon had originated from, her gaze coming to a rest on Mordae's grinning face.

The elf maiden's hand shot to her waist, unclipped another set of _lizcan_, and hurled it at her cousin, missing his face by less than half a meter. She responded to his look of surprise by sticking out her tongue, then returning to her grim work.

Niphredil ran onward, angry with herself for having fallen so far behind the army. A lone bat now flew beside her, low to the ground, so as to avoid the piercing light of the risen sun. The creature had told her that its name was Zalok, and that it had been he that took her in when she arrived at Rivendell.

So, where are you from? the vampire questioned, slowing his pace a bit to stay parallel to the elf.

I was born in Lindon, Niphredil replied in elvish, unsure of whether the creature would be able to understand her, but continuing the conversation nonetheless. But I moved to Rivendell about five hundred years ago. After living there for about four hundred years, I moved to Lorien, where I live now. 

I see. Apparently, elvish was not a problem for Zalok. And this boyfriend of yours? The vampire's tone was bemused. I hear he is quite the man...eh...elf. 

Niphredil felt her step falter and she broke rhythm for a moment. Sensing the disturbance, the bat edged closer to her.

Are you all right, miss? 

I'm fine, sorry. The elf slapped herself on the inside. Yes, Glorfindel is a very talented elf. Talented, unfortunately, in the art of sarcasm as well as war, though it is amusing at times. 

Funny and a fighter. An excellent mix. 

Niphredil sighed. I hope he's safe. 

And why do you say that? Zalok inquired.

The last time I saw Glorfindel, he was being dragged away on the shoulders of a Drow Captain. 

The conversation died for a moment at this revelation, the bat winging slightly further away from the elf.

After a moment, Zalok returned. I apologize. I did not mean to bring to life any ill feelings. 

Don't worry, Niphredil consoled. He's tough; in fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he's escaped by now. 

We can hope. 

The pair raced on in silence for a while longer, before suddenly breaking through the thick trees into a large, brilliantly lit clearing.

Niphredil blinked her eyes a few times, adjusting to the brightness quickly, but the vampire let out a small hiss and whirled back into the trees, where he transformed with a pop into a tall, cultured looking man bearing a _vrylna_ and the traditional bladed staff.

_"Are you coming?" _Niphredil questioned urgently.

Zalok sighed, peering blearily into the light. _"How far do would you say it is to the entrance?"_

The elf skipped happily across the leaf-strewn ground, delighted to be in the sunshine once more. She halted upon reaching the entrance and peered warily inside, but saw no sign of life.

Turning her head, Niphredil sighted the vampire once more, about forty meters away. _"It's right here!"_

Zalok exhaled deeply, altered his form again, and then burst from the trees, eyes tightly shut.

A pain unlike any other he had experienced in his years of a warrior hit him with the force of a troll's mace, causing him to scream on the inside. He felt as though he had been laid in a pit of fire, as though his skin was being slowly seared from his body. Zalok cursed the One who had created him to be a creature of the night, and prayed to anything that would save him from this pain that he would simply die and be done with it.

He was flying blind, and had no idea whether he was still heading in the right direction. Zalok imagined what the elf saw, a lone bat, a ball of fire careening randomly across the field before finally collapsing in a smoking heap of ash.

But suddenly, the vampire could feel the elf; feel her reaching out to him, calling him to her. The bat rocketed across the clearing, arced sharply away from the wall, and transformed again with a crack just inside the entryway, breathing hard. Zalok's skin, which was normally white, had turned a brilliant red, and his eyes had faded slightly; even the touch of the ground sent chills through his cracked skin.

Niphredil hurriedly knelt beside the vampire, reaching out one hand toward him, praying that Illúvatar would heal the pain of the one who had risked his life to accompany her. After a moment, the ruddy tones had all but vanished, and Zalok's eyes shone once more.

_"How did you do that?" _the vampire gasped in amazement. _"Are you a mage?"_

_"No,"_ Niphredil laughed, filled with the joy of serving a God of such power. _"Just a servant of Illúvatar, like the Udunaedos. They just have a...different...connection with Him."_

The vampire nodded knowingly, though he obviously did not fully comprehend.

After a few moments, he stood, unclasping his _vrylna _from his back and slamming a _lizcan_ into the containment bolt. He gestured down the dimly lit hall, where torches that had once been attached to the walls now lay strewn at odd angles across the floor. _"Shall we?"_

A low, livid bellow shook Mordae's attention from the duel with the dwarves, causing him to whirl in the direction of the sound. Behind him, the Remnant and Tvhestan vampires had expended all but their reserves of _lizcan _into the enemy horde, and had now begun battering their way through with their hand-to-hand weapons.

From the sides, however, gigantic doors had begun to open, four on either wall, each about ten meters across and fifteen meters high. From these doors flowed the usual river of dwarf axe-soldiers, but the shadows looming behind them were something that the elf had never encountered in the dwarven arsenal.

_Rac, _ Celebdraug's voice rang in his head. Tell me those are just really ugly dwarves. 

They're just really ugly dwarves, Lynza replied wryly.

Or maybe it's just Mordae's brothers and sisters, Draylen offered.

Or my other cousins, the giant elf retorted.

The ten cave trolls let out an angry roar in unison, shaking the bones of the warriors and loosing small rocks from the roof a half league above, felling several soldiers from both the vampire and the dwarf armies.

The maces hurled downward in great arcs, sending cloudy plumes of ash where they struck, scattering staffs and plate armor in all directions. Mordae delivered a vicious sidekick to the nearest dwarf, hurling it a meter over the heads of its kin, and then bolted for the eastern side, accompanied by his three friends.

The hiss of the remaining _lizcan_ resounded faintly over the din of battle as the shimmering disks ripped into the incoming trolls, sending spurts of black blood high into the air. The disorganization with which they were fired, however, caused many to deflect off one another in arbitrary directions, or miss all together. Poorly aimed shots sliced only small lacerations in the troll's arms and legs, only antagonizing them further. One of the targets was unfortunate enough to receive several well-placed disks to the face; the grotesque body hit the ground with a dull thud as the rest of his kin drove onward, their rage increased by the loss of their brother.

"Hold the break!" Celebdraug cried as she passed the soldiers that had been driving a wedge through the dwarven army. Thanks to the trolls, it was no longer of primary concern to further the rift, but it was important that they at least hold the position, so that they could maintain the tactical advantage. The soldiers acknowledged her orders by slowing the advance until they stood still, forming a rigid wall against the ocean of dwarves.

Mordae slowed his sprint as he neared the trolls. The creatures were reptilian in nature, with smooth blue-gray skin and enormous, hollow, black eyes that betrayed their lack of intelligence. Each of the monsters bore a massive mace which, when coupled with strength more than ten times that of the elven warrior, could deal out extensive damage to any foe they came upon.

The elf could not fathom where the dwarves had come to possess the trolls. The creatures had once roamed free in the dark forests of Mirkwood and Eriador, but had been hunted to near extinction by elves and men in the wild. They had last been seen in the battles of Minas Tirith, after which they were thought to no longer be in existence. The dwarves had either captured these from Sauron's armies or somehow discovered the remains of a tribe in the northern wastes. No matter where they had come from, the monsters spelled trouble for the vampire army.

The Noldor turned sharply as he felt his cousin slide to a halt beside him and pull her bowstring taught, pressing the fletching of the three arrows against her cheek. Following her lead, Mordae unslung his own longbow and took aim at the lumbering monstrosities that thundered closer to the two elves, battering their way through the fleeing vampires.

_"The one on the right, his helmet is slipping," _Celebdraug hissed.

Along with incredibly thick skin, and layers of fat and muscles, the dwarves had outfitted the trolls with thick mìthril plate armor, making them virtually invincible. The only way to bring the trolls down would be to exploit one of the few weaknesses they held – their utter stupidity.

Mordae nodded in confirmation, and the Noldor fired as one, sending six of their meter long arrows through the exposed section of the monster's skull. With a bellow of pain, the creature staggered back, then collapsed on the ground with an earthshaking thud.

Draylen and Lynza arrived beside the pair a moment later, staffs at the ready.

"Nice shot," Lynza complimented, nodding toward the fallen troll.

"My arrows killed it," Mordae assured the vampires.

"Mine," Celebdraug argued.

"Move!" Draylen shrieked, kicking Mordae and Celebdraug backward as he pulled Lynza with him. With a thunderous crash, a troll's mace slammed into the ground where the foursome had just stood, crushing the rock to a fine powder that sprayed into the air.

Without missing a beat, Celebdraug hit the ground on her back, kicked onto her feet, and launched herself four meters into the air, swapping her bow for her blade as she whirled through the air. The troll gazed wide-eyed as if pondering the flying elf as she hurled toward the monster, sword pointed straight for his neck. With the peal of metal scraping metal, her superheated blade drove through the flexible plate over the creature's neck and embedded itself in the thick skin. Bellowing loudly, the troll's hand shot to where the weapon stuck, and he began to turn in a slow circle, as if trying to escape the burning sensation.

Celebdraug landed gracefully on her feet, bending her knees to absorb the impact of the fall, and putting herself in position for Mordae to vault off of her, sailing high over the troll's head as it turned.

The Noldor inverted himself so that his blade pointed straight down, aiming directly at the shimmering black helmet that the beast wore. Smoothly, as if in slow motion, Mordae plummeted, thrust his sword all the way to the hilt inside the creature's head, and landed with a slight hop beside Lynza.

Suddenly paralyzed, the troll ceased its rotation and simply crumpled, collapsing on itself, to lay prone on the rock floor, eyes still wide.

"Showoffs," Draylen hissed as the two elves retrieved their blades.

Mordae shrugged, not arguing.

With a fanged grin, the vampire whirled and sprinted toward the next troll, his staff pointed toward his target. Lynza bolted after him, weapon poised, her eyes narrowed. The massive mace swung in a blurred arc toward Draylen, who simply transformed and flew lightly above the weapon, then changed back to his original form on the other side. As the troll began to bring the club back, Lynza sprinted through the danger zone, clearing the distance that the monster could strike her before he was capable.

Draylen gave a slight hop, thrust his staff into the ground, and used it to propel himself upward, carrying the weapon with him as he rose. Lynza slashed first the tree trunk-like leg, then the gigantic arm that held the mace, causing it to release the bludgeon, sending it sailing into another troll, which slammed into the ground and did not rise. At the peak of his flight, Draylen jabbed his staff into the troll's forehead, then swung in a complete rotation around his weapon placing him on the shoulder of the beast. With great ceremony, the vampire traded staff for _vrylna_, took aim at the bulging neck, and fired, sending three disks ricocheting down the troll's throat.

Coughing heavily, the monster dropped to his knees, barely missing Lynza, who dove to safety. Draylen transformed once more, and winged calmly to Celebdraug's side, where he altered form for a final time to witness his handiwork.

The troll staggered forwards another step, reaching weakly for Lynza, who easily dodged to the side of the lethargic attempt. With a concluding groan, the creature plunged to the ground, lying motionless, facedown on the stones before the girl's feet.

"What do you think?" Draylen offered to Celebdraug.

The elf maiden grinned broadly. "The jump was sloppy. You had to use your staff?"

"Well," the vampire explained haughtily. "When you have to lug around this much muscle..."

Celebdraug punched her companion lightly in the shoulder, causing him to wince.

"Hey, I got shot, remember?"

"Yes," Mordae chided. "You mustn't hurt the poor baby."

Draylen aimed his staff teasingly at the elf, which half-raised his broadsword.

"Gentlemen," Lynza sighed, gesturing toward the final troll on the eastern end of the battle. "We do have more pressing matters to attend to other than one another."

Mordae exhaled noisily, glanced at the beast – which was busy battering down scores of vampires thirty meters away – trotted forward a few steps, and then with a grunt, hurled his blade at the beast. The weapon arced smoothly, twirling vertically as it soared across the space, and then implanted itself cleanly in the side of the monster's head. Without a sound, the creature collapsed, crushing three vampire soldiers not quick enough to flee.

With great debonair, Mordae turned back toward the vampire girl, haughtily tossing his dark hair back over his shoulders. "You were saying?"

Lynza shook her head, smiling slightly. "That was actually rather impressive."

"I know."

The vampire laughed out loud. "You're a hobbit."

"I know."

"One problem," Celebdraug interjected pointedly.

Celebdraug's cousin suavely raised one eyebrow, prompting a slight chuckle from her. "Your sword."

Mordae's eyes widened as he observed the dwarven army enveloping the area where the vampire soldiers had once stood, but had now abandoned.

_"Rac."_

_"What happened in here?" _Niphredil wondered aloud as she surveyed the destroyed hall where the battle had begun.

Zalok inspected the ash that littered the ground. _"It appears as though the dwarves had a few surprises for our warriors."_

The pair made their way in silence through the carnage, until they came to the point where the floor had given way, revealing the spear-headed pikes that had impaled hundreds of the vampires.

Niphredil let out a long sigh. _"Now what?" _


	54. Chapter LIII: Those Who Do Not Wish to D...

_**Chapter LIII: Those Who Do Not Wish to Die by the Sword, Live by it**_

Though the sun beamed down with all its radiance upon the trees of Mirkwood, not a single droplet of light reached the forest floor. The towering trees, some over a hundred meters high, obstructed any gleam from the outside, making the leaf-strewn ground surrounding the ruins of Dol Guldur, the ancient tower of Sauron, black as the night itself.

In the Second Age, Sauron had erected the tower as a fortress from which he and the Witch King could command their armies. However, when the elves of the wood resisted and ousted the Dark Lord from his position, the tower was left abandoned, desolate, untouched for hundreds of years.

A flash of crimson light provided the first illumination that the tower base had seen in thousands of years as it slowly expanded into a swirling orb. A few moments later, and a thunderous crack shattered the once peaceful silence of the forest.

As the mist cleared, the small horde of Remnant soldiers appeared, weapons ready for any strange creature that they might encounter. Though the woods had been technically abandoned, the occasional band of wood elves, beast, or one of the many unidentified creatures that had existed from the dawn of time, had been rumored to waylay bands of travelers foolhardy enough to venture into the wood.

No such deterrence lingered at the base of the tower, however, at least not on this day. The soldiers relaxed as Vrayon took a few tentative steps forward, touching the foundation of the great fortress with a gloved hand.

"Dol Guldur," the General murmured to himself, shaking his head. The vampire turned to face his troops. "Zisss isss a sssight zat hasss not been ssseen for hundredsss of yearsss. Count yourselvesss blesssed."

"I'll count myself blessed when I get out of here with my head," Grishnákh growled, his hand still tight around the blade that he carried.

Garulf let out a small chuckle and strode forward to stand alongside the vampire, and then began to circle the tower, searching for an entrance.

The wolfman shot a glance over his shoulder, his red eyes gleaming in the complete darkness. "We will not get inside by standing, men," the General prompted, hefting his battle-axe over his shoulder and continuing on his orbit.

The Remnant troops exchanged nervous comments as the fanned out and began securing the perimeter, each creature using their natural night-vision to search out movement – of which there was none.

A short time later, Vrayon let out a triumphant shout that rang through the darkness, calling the other soldiers to him. Upon regrouping, the assembly gazed up at the gates to the tower, charred wood and iron that seemed to barely hang on to their insecure foundations.

The miniature army stood in silence for another moment, gazing through the breaks and cracks into the ominous darkness that seemed to intensify inside the tower.

Finally, Garulf took a step forward, placing one hand on the door. "Here goes nothing."

The Lychen shoved the door open, axe raised, and raced into the center of the entry chamber, his eyes searching the dark corners for lingering minions or other fell creatures that would not take into consideration the fact that they worked for the same Darkness.

Seeing no sign of movement, the troops made their way to the spiraling staircase that stretched onward for thousands of meters into the inky tower, seemingly having no end.

Vrayon tossed a sardonic glance at Garulf. "Ladiesss firssst."

"Don't mind if I do," the General growled, ignoring the blatant insult. With that, the troop began the trek up stairs into the eerie silence.

Mordae sprinted forward, charging the suddenly panicked dwarves that had swarmed across his weapon where it lay. The creatures began scrambling over one another in a frantic attempt to escape, until one of them took note of the fact that the elf did not seem to be wielding any blade at all, despite the various daggers and knives he carried on his person.

Smiling grimly at the prospect of brining down the great warrior, the dwarves regrouped, forming a half circle of twenty soldiers, all of whom raised their axes in preparation for the killing blow.

The elf slowed to a halt within ten paces of the creatures, which glanced nervously at one another, their courage shaken at the calm demeanor of the man staring death in the face. Slowly, ominously, Mordae raised a hand and pointed his index finger at the dwarf standing nearest his blade, three rows behind the front line soldier. The creature swallowed deeply, his axe quavering as the elf nodded in conformation. The dwarf's eyes shot to the sword, then to the elf, and then back to the weapon on the stone ground, and his eyes widened in sudden realization.

Mordae struck with the speed of a dragon, taking two paces forward, leaping off of one foot and whipping around in a full circle, completing the rotation with a thunderous hook kick into the dwarf lieutenant that stood in the front. The creature was hurled back several meters as the elf landed for a brief moment, then left the ground again, firing two sets of double kicks into another pair of dwarves.

As he landed, one particularly brave dwarf stepped forward and struck, his axe sweeping in a broad arc down toward Mordae's head. The sweep was so wide, however, that the elf dodged nimbly to the side as he ran his right hand down the length of the weapon's handle, driving it into the ground. With a slight hop, Mordae kicked the grip in half – rendering the axe useless – and vaulted over the head of his attacker, executing a half-turn as he did so, landing with his arms around the neck of the smaller creature. The muscles on the Noldor's shoulders flexed as he gave one violent twist, snapping the neck of his opponent, and then he was airborne again.

Upon landing, the axe strikes began raining down on either side of Mordae, who dodged or parried every attack that came toward him with rapid efficiency. Several bone-shattering punches and kicks followed, completed by a twirling double hook kick that felled another four soldiers. This time, however, the elf landed in a crouch, disappearing from view for a moment.

With an explosion of light and a screech of metal scraping metal, Mordae rose, his blade spinning in rapid figure eights as he slew another half dozen of the dwarves. As the survivors of the slaughter retreated the forty meters back to their main lines – which immediately began receding at the sight of the warrior – the elf spun in sword in one final, gigantic figure eight, and then sheathed the weapon with tremendous force.

After tossing his hair over his shoulder in what was becoming his signature display of arrogance, Mordae swaggered back to the other three Generals, who stood observing his attack. The group was silent as the elf strode to stand before them, panting slightly.

"Told you I could do it," Mordae breathed after a moment of calm.

Lynza applauded lightly and moderately contemptuously.

"Showoff," Celebdraug spat.

"Hey," Mordae shrugged, "You dared me to."

A thundering crash rang through the hall as the mangled remains of another troll slammed into the earth on the western front of the battle, leaving three more still standing bloody and angry.

Celebdraug cast a morose glance in the direction of the battle as the dwarves before them began to rotate toward the center, attempting to break the wedge that the vampires had held and widened slightly in the Generals' absence.

The elf maiden gestured with her blade in the direction of the troop movement. "Shall we?"

The others nodded in conformation and began charging in a direct intercept line of the advancing dwarf soldiers.

Niphredil cautiously and deliberately made her way around the crumbled rock that surrounded the serrated spikes lining the collapsed trench the hallway had been transformed into in the ambush. Above her, Zalok flew in lazy circles, keeping a lookout for any hidden enemies that lay in wait for the elf.

"_What do you think happened here?"_ the elf inquired, hopping lightly over a large piece of the broken rock.

Looks like a cave-in, but the breaks are quite thin. Obviously intentional, the vampire replied.

"_Hence the spikes."_

Zalok laughed, a rasping, airy sound.

The pair carried on in silence a bit longer, traversing another hundred meters of the shaft.

"_Well, no elf bodies yet,"_ Niphredil observed. _"So Mordae and Celebdraug are still alive."_

The bat did not reply; rather, he flittered down the dark passageway until finally reaching a small shaft of light. Faint screams and crashes echoed down the chamber, the dissonant song of death.

Winging back toward Niphredil, Zalok noted that elf bodies were indeed not evident anywhere. This news surprised him greatly; how anyone could survive the trap that had been sprung without the ability to fly was beyond him.

With some astonishment, the vampire encountered the elven girl some one hundred-fifty meters farther than she had been before, obviously getting the hang of the rock hopping that she was performing. Niphredil glanced up, her smile beaming brightly, as the bat returned to her side.

"_Any news from the front?" _she questioned brightly.Zalok sighed to himself. The elves must have survived. I see no bodies. 

"_That's good."_

The end of the tunnel is about fifty meters around the next bend. There is only a small opening, but you are thin; I believe you will have no trouble exiting. 

Niphredil leaped spryly from the large boulder she had perched upon, catching hold of a spear shaft and flinging herself several meters forward, where she landed lightly beside another spike.

You are going to kill yourself, Zalok warned.

"_Nah," _the girl argued._ "I know what I'm doing."_

The vampire let out a hiss of laughter as he flew circles above the elf. Four hundred meters, and already an expert. 

Niphredil sprinted through a stretch of relative clarity from the rocks, weaving in and out of the shining spearheads as she hurried onward, leaving Zalok to catch up to her.

The girl drew up suddenly as a faint glimmer of light shone from above, and she hurriedly picked her way over the rocks before the bend in the tunnel. Dropping over the edge, she caught her first glimpse of light in the dank mines.

"_Hey! I think I see the end!"_

A resounding bellow, followed by a thunderous crash, echoed down the tunnel, causing the elf to jump slightly.

Niphredil's eyes widened. _"What was that?"_

Zalok sighed, slowly drawing up alongside the elf. Honestly, I have no idea, he calmly replied. It sounded large. 

A cacophonic chorus of screams and battle cries rang out through the gap in the fallen rock, along with the faint tinkling sound of distant metallic clashes.

"_Is there a battle going on out there?"_

Zalok flew in a quick vertical circle, and then with a pop, landed beside the girl, his form humanoid once more. _"That is why we came here, no?"_

The thought seemed to startle Niphredil as the sudden revelation hit her with the force of a siege-stone. In fifty meters, she might be forced to make the choice between kill or be killed, a quandary she had always prayed that she never end up in.

"_Are you ready?" _Zalok inquired, his glittering black eyes haunting the elf as she gazed into them.

_Illúvatar, guide my steps and my blade. I plead that You let Your will be done with thy servant._

With a deep, soul-filled sigh, Niphredil drew her thin blade, which glimmered almost mysteriously calmingly in the darkness surrounding her. She was reminded of the countless times she had witnessed Mordae and Celebdraug draw their brutal looking weapons. A sense of peace filled her mind as she realized the answer to her prayer. Broadswords may have seemed brutal in the hands of a foe, but with the Noldor wielding them, they were not devices of war, but the Hand of Illúvatar. The Hand that gave life to its servants, but also justice to its enemies.

Striding forward, Niphredil gradually picked up her pace until she was sprinting once more, Zalok scrambling to maintain close proximity behind her. With a cry, the elf dove through the space between the fallen boulders.

"_Illúvatar!" _

Celebdraug whirled from her work at the sound of the familiar battle cry shouted by a familiar voice that she never would have thought would ever cry it with the meaning it held now. The battle cry was a prayer; for strength, for honor, for guidance, and most of all, for justice to be served. The shieldmaiden's eyes lit with a bright crimson flame as they followed her friend's path toward her, rapidly closing the distance. With a slight twirl, Celebdraug turned back to the dwarves she had been battling, deflecting four axes in a single blur of motion, then striking down the wielders of the weapons with the same smoothness.

Mordae tapped an axe-head to the right, redirecting the attack, kicked another weapon to his left, then brought his blade straight down through the top of a dwarf in front of him. Hearing another form slide beside him, the elf turned his head to the side, his eyes coming to rest on a familiar face.

Niphredil grinned broadly at her friends, noting the streaked dirt and red bloodstains on their faces and clothes, along with the white lacerations where they had not been quick enough to completely deter an axe blow or a shred of shrapnel.

"_Hello!"_ the girl cried brightly, waving with her thin blade emphatically.

The two elves and vampires all cast fleeting, slightly wearied, yet amused glances at the new arrival. Before any of her friends could reply, a dwarf in pointed plate armor burst from the ranks and charged toward Niphredil with a throaty battle cry, as his axe rose high above the helmeted head.

The elf barely dodged the gigantic axe blade as it hurled down toward her, waving weakly with her sword as she stumbled over the broken ground, landing lightly on her back. With anger flaming in his eyes, the dwarf strode quickly to his target, then straddled over her, axe raised once more.

_Kill or be killed..._

The aphorism rang in Niphredil's mind as the axe blade fell in seemingly slow motion toward her head, shimmering with an ironic peace in the torchlight.

Stars exploded in Niphredil's vision as a crushing weight struck her in the chest with such force that nearly blacked out. Piercing pain shot through her body like liquid fire, running a river of agony through her body.

_Kill or be killed..._

Garulf halted at the entrance to the next room, panting heavily from the tedious climb up the dank staircase. He had no real idea where he was headed, other than up, but the sight before him convinced him that he had been on the right track.

A glittering black and violet crystal hung suspended in mid-air, shimmering with a deep intensity that was beyond any comprehension that the General held. It gyrated slowly, spreading its soft luminescence through the otherwise barren room, casting watery shadows on the cold stones of the spacious room. The Night Crystal.

"Vat isss ze problem?" Vrayon's hiss echoed from behind the Lychen, who stepped deliberately to the side, revealing the unfathomable lavender glow.

Gradually, the remainder of the Remnant soldiers trickled into the room, cautiously lining the walls, their gaze riveted on the beautiful crystal.

The serenity was shattered by the growl of the orc General. "So, now what?"

"Pick it up, _snaga_," Vrayon hissed, using the derogatory orcish slang for slave in his anger at the creature's callousness.

Grishnákh snarled lividly, then nodded with a grunt at one of his Lieutenants, who stepped gingerly forward, toward the still-spiraling crystal. Ever so slowly, the orc's trembling claws eased outward, until finally, they grasped the liquid surface of the gem.

A deafening crack split the silence, echoing down the massive staircase and ringing through the tower as a bolt of pure dark energy slammed into the orc, completely incinerating the beast.

The other soldiers let out shrieks of surprise, dismay, and fear as they scrambled for the exit, blocked from retreat by the stoic Garulf. As the assembly stood wavering before him, the Lychen General stepped forward, raised his axe, and then hurled it toward the crystal, driving it from its position in the center of the room to a dark corner, where it immediately ceased its glowing.

Striding confidently past his smoking weapon, which soon vaporized completely into naught but wafting smoke, Garulf stooped beside the gem, extended a hand, then flipped the gem to Vrayon, who barely caught it with one hand, scrambling frantically to maintain his grasp on that which he wished not to hold.

After finally securing the stone inside his leather pouch, Vrayon cast a venomous glance at Garulf, who shrugged innocently.

"I got it down, did I not?"

Vrayon sighed resignedly, hanging his head.

Garulf stood and marched past the frozen Remnant soldiers, who cowered behind one another. "Back to Dol Gwath?"

"No," Vrayon countered. "To Mornië."

A rapidly expanding bubble of red mist filled the room, and then with a crack, Dol Guldur was empty once more.

Mordae jerked his hands in opposite directions, snapping the handle on the axe of the larger-than-average sized dwarf standing over him. As he hurled the massive head toward the center of the dwarven army, the giant elf used his free hand to punch the knee of his opponent with a force that shattered the plate armor completely, dropping the creature to the ground beside him.

Almost gracefully, Mordae executed a forward roll, rotating on top of his temporarily felled foe. The elf rose with a perfectly vertical leap, extending one leg in a solid downward sidekick as he fell. With a crunch, the Noldor landed heavily on his kicking leg, crumbling the plate helmet of the dwarf into scraps, then rolled to absorb some of the shock.

Celebdraug swept her sword in a massive horizontal arc, felling the front row of dwarves that she and Mordae had been fighting, then raced to Niphredil's side, extending her hand to assist her friend, who rose, coughing loudly.

"_I'm sorry I had to land on you," _Mordae apologized, smoothly retrieving his blade from the ground where he had dropped it.

Celebdraug whirled momentarily, deflecting several more axe strokes and felling the attackers in rapid succession, then turned back to Niphredil.

"_Are you alright?"_

The elf nodded her head in a daze. She had been moments away from death, and then suddenly, she was alive again, standing once more, ready to face the next foe. The stress of it all was nearly overwhelming.

_And this is what you deal with every day, my friends._ The thought shook Niphredil to the core as she gazed thankfully into Mordae's eyes; the shimmer that that they contained when he was joking with Glorfindel back in Lorien was gone, replaced by a cold, almost cruel, look of determination.

_Kill or be killed._

The path of the warrior.

Celebdraug's eyes shone slightly as she glanced first at her cousin, then at Niphredil.

She extended her left hand, which held Niphredil's blade, dripping with dark red on the tip.

_"Sorry, but I had to use this. See the stuff on the end?" _the shieldmaiden inquired.

The Silvan nodded.

_"That's blood,"_ Celebdraug explained as if to a child. Niphredil wrinkled her nose slightly.

"_Get used to it,"_ the other girl ordered._ "I want to see more of that, okay? This thing is not just for looks; use it or lose it."_

Niphredil nodded grimly.

Mordae slashed his own glimmering blade through another pair of dwarves, ducked Lynza's whirling staff as she drove through another three enemies, then turned and beamed at the vampire, his eyes shining.

"How about we get this party started?"

A deep, rumbling groan from the depths drowned out Lynza's reply, accompanied by a heavy drumbeat, then another, in a slow, steady rhythm. The dwarves began chanting softly to themselves as a red glow grew gradually from the far end of the hall. An earsplitting bellow echoed over the din of the battle, which had quieted some in the sudden presence of the unidentified intruder.

The entire dwarf army responded to the roar with a bone-rending shout.

**_"KHAZAD!"_**

Lynza swallowed hard and locked eyes with Mordae, who offered a sly grin. The vampire raised her staff back into a fighting position and aimed it toward the light. "I think somebody else is going to do that for us."


	55. Chapter LIV: The Bigger They Come, the H...

_**Chapter LIV: The Bigger They Come, the Harder They Fall**_

In a colossal, cavernous room built of cold gray stone, a lone figure stood, swathed in black robes with blood-red runes embroidered on the hem of the sleeves. The barren room was void of any decoration or structure save a single circular formation of stones in the exact center, twenty meters long and barely a half-meter high.

With a snap, a glowing red orb formed in the heart of the circle, rapidly expanding until it filled the entire disk with its crimson light. The radiance grew rapidly in intensity until, when the light seemed as though it could grow no brighter, the sphere collapsed on itself. Now, two-dozen Remnant soldiers stood where the globe had once been.

The dark figure began to walk forward, covering the distance to the troops in long strides, spreading his arms wide as he advanced.

"Welcome, brethren!" Mornië cried, his voice echoing off the harsh stone walls.

"Massster!" Vrayon's voice replied as the vampire General exited the circle. How Mornië always seemed to know when the vampire was coming never ceased to amaze the General, but he forced himself to remain composed. "I bring good tidingsss!"

The Drow slowed his progress. "The Noldor are dead?"

A hissing laugh resounded in reply. "I sssaid good, not exsssellent."

Mornië let out a bark of laughter, coming to a halt five meters from the assembly of creatures that had begun to file out of the ring.

Vrayon bowed low, dropping to one knee, then advanced to his Master's side, extending a clawed hand. "My lord."

The Drow let out a cry of joy, reaching eagerly for the faintly glowing gem in the vampire's hand, murmuring excitedly to himself in elvish.

"What isss zat I hear?" Vrayon teased, his black eyes glittering.

Mornië beamed at the General. "I apologize." The Dark Lord held the gem aloft, scrutinizing the liquid surface in the flickering light. His red eyes shot down to lock with Vrayon's. "This had better be genuine."

The vampire General grinned. "Plucked ssstraight from ze heart of Dol Guldur."

Mornië danced in a small circle, holding the Night Crystal high above his head. "Dost thou realize what this means?"

Vrayon shrugged, his grin widening.

"We are but a mere step away from completing our primary objective!" Mornië shouted. "All we must do now is acquire the rings of the Noldor, and the others that they carry, and we are complete!"

He drew up suddenly. "Nay, we need not wait! The Noldor are coming here, where we will slay them and take their rings! Vrayon, in but a few hours, we shall be the uncontested rulers of Middle Earth!"

"It isss a gloriousss night."

The Drow put on arm around the vampire's shoulders and began to head toward the massive door marking the exit from the room. "Well done, brother."

Forty meters behind the pair, Garulf turned slowly to Grishnákh, who let out a low growl.

"I really hate that bastard," the orc snarled.

The Lychen nodded emphatically. "Both of them."

Draylen stumbled back to Celebdraug's side, deflecting the stray axe strikes aimed at his head as he did so. The vampire halted as he reached his friends' side, nodding curtly to Niphredil, who had a slightly dazed look in her green eyes.

"So, who woke up Lynza's mother?" Draylen inquired, pointing toward the scarlet glow and the origin of the guttural growls.

"I think your mom fell down," Mordae replied, "And the earthquake woke up Lynza's."

Draylen grinned and nodded slightly in the elf's direction, surrendering the win, at least for the current round of insults.

"What in Udun is that thing?" Celebdraug growled, absently beating down another dwarf infantry soldier with her blade.

With a triumphant shout, the Remnant/Tvhesta forces broke through the dwarf army at the focal point of the wedge that had been driven into the soldiers. The gap expanded at an incredible speed as more vampires entered the hole, and then began flowing in a river of black from the far end of the army, flanking the dwarf soldiers. The dwarf chant picked up speed, growing in intensity as the momentum increased. Suddenly, the chant ceased, and a deafening cry burst from a distant tunnel.

At the exact same moment, an enormous gate at the far end of the hall where the battle had not yet reached exploded open, revealing a massive dwarf – barely over five feet tall, but exceptionally large for one of the generally diminutive creatures. In his hand, he held the derivation of the red glow; a massive war hammer that glowed with an unearthly color.

The reason for the glow was made evident as the dwarf King began to charge forward, raising the weapon over his shoulder. The head of the enormous weapon appeared to have been made entirely from molten lava, liquid fire that swirled slowly in the darkness as the warrior surged forward. The magma boiled and churned with the rage of the King in a perfect cylindrical shape, held by a forging power unknown even to the elves.

The elves and vampire leaders locked eyes seeing the thoughts of the others; fear in Niphredil's, confusion in Zalok's, the assured confidence in the Noldor and vampire Generals' eyes.

As one, Lynza, Draylen, Celebdraug, and Mordae lunged forward, sprinting down the gap between them and the gargantuan dwarf.

The King hit the vampire lines like a tidal wave, his flaming hammer beating dozens of the fanged creatures into ashes with massive shockwaves that emanated from each stroke. Attempts to attack him were completely fruitless, the brave only becoming the dead.

Mordae reached the King first, lunging forward with his glimmering yellow blade. The dwarf deftly sidestepped the attack, swinging the molten hammer with all his might. With all his strength, Mordae attempted to correct his attack, which the elf knew immediately had been far too hasty and overdone. The massive head slammed into the Noldor's right hand, splintering the bones and charring the appendage horribly.

Lynza let out a hiss and sprinted harder, racing past Celebdraug – who was next in line – and vaulting off of a fallen boulder, hurling over the head of the dwarf King. Smoothly, the creature pointed the hammer at the flying vampire and barked a single word in Khazdul. A glittering shockwave burst from the head, flinging Lynza another ten meters into the air, where she slammed into one of the enormous pillars and slid to the bottom, lying motionless.

Draylen extended his staff just in front of Celebdraug, slowing her enough for him to overtake her. As he stepped in front of her, attempting to shield her from the attack, he hurled his staff spear-like toward the King, who held up a hand, splintering the weapon with another shockwave that hurled Draylen back into the elf maiden.

Stay here, Celebdraug growled, shoving the vampire backward into Niphredil, who had been hanging back slightly, not really willing to do battle with the creature before them. The Silvan caught Draylen, then hurried to Mordae's side, where she knelt, assisting the dazed elf in his attempt to rise from the ground. Angrily, the vampire complied with the Noldorian girl's order, turning to face the few dwarves that had attempted to flank the small group.

Celebdraug slowed to a walk as she drew within ten meters of the dwarf King, who grinned raggedly at her, revealing disgustingly yellowed teeth hidden behind his scraggly beard and dirt stained face.

The elf knew that the King was no more powerful than any other mage or mighty creature she had battled; the friends had simply underestimated him. It would take more than a swift blade to fell this foe. She prayed that Lynza would recover, knowing that Mordae would more likely have more of a bruised ego than serious physical injury.

Thrain III, the King of Khazad, beckoned for the elf to come to him, ready to strike her down as he had her friends. However, she did not lunge irrationally toward him; rather, she deliberately, ominously, pointed her flaming broadsword at him, the two fiery weapons throwing a red glow over the battlefield.

Extending one hand, Celebdraug hurled a small ball of flame toward her opponent, who batted it away with a medium sized shockwave. The elf nodded sagely, and the dwarf beamed in response, raising his massive hammer. With her free hand, Celebdraug mimicked the beckoning gesture of her foe, which lunged forward with a roar, the molten head arcing down toward the elf.

Celebdraug nimbly sidestepped the blow, then executed a back handspring, taking her safely out of the range of the shockwave that radiated from the strike zone. The dwarf glared at her, then charged again, this time swinging horizontally. With a slight hop, the elf leaped over the attack, swinging down with her blade as she twirled. Thrain held up his free hand, releasing a shielding shockwave that deflected the blow, and Celebdraug herself.

The Noldor hit the ground on her back with a grunt, then kicked onto her feet once more, her eyes flaming. Playtime was over; the game had become tiresome. Narrowing her eyes, Celebdraug charged forward, closing the distance between elf and dwarf almost instantaneously.

The flaming blade sang as it whipped in a single blur of motion in rapid arcs, bouncing wildly off hurriedly thrown shockwave shields. Spitting molten rock, the gigantic hammer whirled in desperate counterattacks, all of which the elf dodged easily. As the head came down toward her, Celebdraug raised her sword to meet the blow, intending to deflect the heavy weapon over the head of the King. Instead, her blade passed through the burning head as if it were water, not slowing the momentum a single iota, forcing Celebdraug to dodge at the last second.

The shockwave hurled the elf high into the air, sending bright red flashes into Celebdraug's vision. Maintaining control despite the pain, the Noldor tucked into a tight ball, then released a sheet of flame that enclosed Thrain in a burning cage. Rolling to absorb the impact, Celebdraug hit the ground, rose and lunged into the center of the inferno. Her eyes met the fear-filled black globes of the dwarf just as the burning blade blasted through his plate armor with a hiss. The elf's gaze did not waver as she deftly retracted her jab, swept her sword in a massive arc, and decapitated her foe.

With a groan, the ground beneath the battling armies began to shake, throwing many of the combatants to the ground. A deep, bone-shaking roar grew as if from the bowels of the earth, felling rocks from the roof and collapsing whole sections of the walls. There was a loud explosion, and then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the earthquake ceased, leaving a pile of glowing embers at Celebdraug's feet.

Exhaling deeply, Celebdraug closed her eyes. _"Sina tyele vell tellae harana nogathrim; ie'vell cam a dae aloril.__1__"_

Mordae struggled to his feet, his gaze riveted on his cousin as she slew the creature before him. The elf placed a giant hand on Niphredil's shoulder.

"_I'm fine."_

"_But your hand..." _the Silvan began to protest.

"_I've had worse."_

Celebdraug sheathed her weapon in a single maneuver, then tossed her hair over her shoulders in mockery of Mordae's new move. Her cousin grinned brightly at her friendly scorn, then raced to Lynza's side at the base of a half broken pillar.

Kneeling beside the vampire, the elf reached out with his left hand – though he had dismissed the injury in front of Niphredil, Mordae could not feel his right hand, much less bear to observe the damage done – and touched Lynza's forehead lightly.

The vampire girl's dark eyes flickered open, gazing blearily at the elf's face.

"Blood of the ancients..." Lynza groaned, rising to her elbows where she lay.

"I know, what a face to wake up to," Mordae quipped. "I apologize. Are you alright?"

"I feel like Draylen just sat on me."

The elf shook his head with a muted smile. "You look like it, too."

"Thanks." Lynza began to sit up, wincing at the pain in her stomach and chest. She let out a gasp as her eyes fell on Mordae's charred hand.

"What happened?" she cried, reaching for the wounded arm.

"Celebdraug spit on me," Mordae explained, using his good arm to pull Lynza gently to her feet.

"Only because that poor dwarf looked at your face," Celebdraug countered, coming to a halt beside the pair. The elf gestured to the smoking ashes. "See what happened to him?"

Draylen trotted happily to the others' side, placing one hand gingerly on Celebdraug's shoulder. "Nice job."

The girl grinned. "Thank you. I couldn't have done it without your backup, though."

"Oh, you're just trying to make me feel better."

"Pretty much."

Niphredil bounded to the remains of the dwarf, searched through the ashes, and then rose triumphantly, the ring glowing in her hand. The Silvan raced to the others, passing Zalok as she ran.

The vampire glared first at the Noldorian girl, then the glowing ring, and then back at the elf that had perfectly evaded the entire plan. With a hiss of rage, the Lieutenant began to charge.

One by one, the dwarves began to lay down their axes, tears in the eyes of some warriors. It was over; their empire had let out its final gasp, and had been smothered by the others. The Remnant/Tvhesta soldiers hurriedly began to box in the survivors, staves herding them together.

Ravnor cursed to himself. He had known the plan would never succeed; you could trust no race but the pure, the vampires and the Drow.

As he passed his second in command, he hissed orders. "Come vith me. Bring ozersss, bowmen. Have ze dwarvesss exsssecuted."

The Lieutenant saluted and rushed to carry out the orders of his superior.

"Congratualtionsss," Ravnor hissed as he approached the cluster of elves and Tvhestan vampires. "I have never ssseen sssuch disssplay of ssskill with a blade or commanding an army."

"Thank you," Lynza replied warily, noting that Ravnor's attention seemed oddly diverted. "Perhapsss ve shall vork togezer again sssome day."

The other vampire grinned. "Unfortunately, I do not zink zat vill be posssible."

Niphredil's shriek echoed through the now calmed battle hall.

_"What in Udun?" _Mordae roared as Zalok wrapped one muscular arm around the Silvan girl's neck and placed the other, in which shone a vicious looking dagger, over her heart.

"Do not move, elf, or your friend dies," the Tvhestan General warned.

In a blur of chaotic motion, dozens more vampires rose from hiding around the pillar, bows and _vrylna _aiming steadily at the group. Ravnor swept behind Celebdraug and placed a dagger across her throat, hissing, "Move and die."

Though she had no doubt that she could kill her attacker, Celebdraug did not move, for Niphredil's sake. The Silvan elf's face had drained completely of color, her green eyes pleading and filled with fear.

Mordae had drawn his broadsword with his left hand, and he waved it back and forth between Draylen, Ravnor, and Zalok.

The elf's yellow eyes, cold once more, locked with Lynza's. He could scarcely comprehend that after all she had said and done, it was still a lie. Mordae had not trusted her at the beginning, and now, he knew that his instincts had been correct.

Yet, something in Lynza's eyes spoke to him. They appeared cold and hard on the outside, but deeper, he could see pain and confusion.

Mordae, listen to me, her voice echoed in his head alone.

Why? the elf growled in response.

I have even less of an idea of what is happening here than you do. Just play along with it. 

_Illúvatar, guide my choice._

"You filthy, rotten, sun-worshiping demon!" the giant elf screamed at Draylen stepping angrily forward. "After all we've done together, this?!"

The other vampires tensed, ready to fire, but fear shone in all of their gazes.

What in Udun are you doing? Draylen hissed at Mordae.

I wish I knew, came the reply.

"The whole thing was a trap, then?" the elf wondered aloud.

Ravnor nodded smugly. "Zisss entire battle wasss desssigned to kill you and your cousssin. Unfortunately, you two have a knack for sssurviving. I did not know zat it vent asss high in ze Tvhesssta as Lynsssa and Draylen, but Vrayon isss a very coersssive man. He can accomplish great thingsss if he sssetsss hisss mind to it."

Mordae locked eyes with Zalok. No confusion was reflected in the dark pools, only hatred and anger. "Evidently."

"And now," Zalok coaxed into Niphredil's ear, "If you vould give usss ze ring, my dear."

As if in a trance, the Silvan released her grip on the precious item, dropping it into the vampire's hand.

"Very good," Zalok hissed. "Lynza, if you and Draylen could pleassse ssstep out of ze sssircle now, I vill order ze men to fire."

"My pleasssure," Lynza replied, walking calmly to Ravnor's side, flanked by Draylen, who clearly was somewhat lost.

Ravnor shoved Celebdraug forward, then stepped back, allowing another _vrylna _soldier to fill in the link of the circle where he had stood.

With a flash of black robes, Lynza whipped her staff in a massive arc, slicing through four of the archers in front of her. Catching on, Draylen vaulted over his cousin, snatched Ravnor's daggers from his hands, and then plunged them into two more of the Remnant soldiers.

Mordae moved with the speed of a bolt of lightning, thrusting his blade through Niphredil's shoulder and into Zalok's heart. With a shriek, the vampire exploded in a cloud of ash that rained over the Silvan, who stood frozen with fear.

Celebdraug leaped into the air and slashed hard with her weapon, brutally felling another half dozen of the vampire archers. Suddenly, a chill ran down her spine, and she turned slowly as Ravnor's voice echoed over the din.

"Freessse."

Eight meters from the elf – out of blade range, but not _lizcan _– the Remnant Captain held a _vrylna_ pointing straight at Celebdraug, a smug grin on his face.

The other combatants ceased their struggling instantly, save Mordae, who snapped the neck of the vampire he held in a headlock, and then froze.

Ravnor glanced coolly from the elf to Lynza, who shrugged innocently.

"I have no idea vhat isss going on here," the Captain hissed, "But I am sssure zat Vrayon vill sssort it out after I bury your bodiesss."

The sound of thin metal slicing through the air rang over the silence, followed by the clatter of a weapon hitting the ground.

As Ravnor's ashes piled at her feet, Niphredil gazed in wonder at the trembling blade in her hand.

The Silvan glanced up in awe at Mordae and Celebdraug. _"I did it."_

"_Better late than never," _Celebdraug replied sarcastically.

Gathering his thoughts, Mordae reached down, snatched the lava-headed hammer from its resting place, then rolled to Lynza's side.

"Get us out of here."

Niphredil tossed the dwarf ring to Celebdraug – who dove into the rapidly expanding crimson globe – and then, with a crack, the Generals – and Niphredil – disappeared, leaving the Remnant, Tvhesta, and Khazad armies to gradually disengage and embark back to their homes, broken and battered.

In the darkness of the torture chamber, Mornië's red eyes lit up suddenly.

"They are here."

1 Thus ended the last king of the Dwarves; at the hand of an elf maiden.


End file.
